


Yule Ties

by BlueEleanor



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, OC/Fili - Freeform, OC/OC - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-22
Updated: 2017-09-13
Packaged: 2018-11-17 11:50:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 66,125
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11274831
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlueEleanor/pseuds/BlueEleanor
Summary: Post-BoFA, AU. Erebor has been invaded...but not in a way the dwarves could have imagined. Something followed Thorin Oakenshield and his Company back from the dark land of Faerie. Dwarves' patience will be tested, things will be cleaned, and halls will be decorated.(Story takes place during Aleks' and Daphne's absences at tail end of "Broken Ties")





	1. A Plague of Meddling

### Chapter 1

_**9 January TA 2942** _

Thorin Oakenshield, restored King Under the Mountain, stopped in his tracks. A tic tugged at the skin beneath his left eye. 

_Mahal, they grow more brazen by the day,_ he fumed to himself. Whilst his back was turned – with him still in the room! - the furniture had been moved. The desk that had been situated against one wall now sat two meters from it, and the chair he’d left haphazardly abandoned was now tucked neatly beneath the desk’s wooden surface, its back to the wall. 

His fingers crumpled around the missive he’d been reading from Dain as his ire grew. The untidy mess of parchments and records that had been strewn across the desk’s cluttered surface now sat in neat piles. _Likely sorted by subject,_ he groused. The mug he’d nursed through the chilly morning hours once more steamed where it sat upon— 

His head reared back. By Durin, was that a _doily?_

Thorin rubbed one palm down his face, his hand clenching around one of his braids at the end of the gesture. If he thought it would help, he would beat his head against the wall. He _did not_ have time for this. Erebor was a right mess with walls and even stairs crumbled throughout its sprawling belly. Any necessities that had been left behind by the dwarves who had fled decades before were moth-eaten, moldy, or so decayed that they fell to dust at a touch. His dwarves and the men who had sought refuge during the winter months with them were lacking in so many things…yet here sat a doily. 

That something or someone – his gaze flicked towards the closed door – could move among Erebor’s residents unseen disturbed him greatly. He cared not that the interloper had thus far acted only to aid them. Without knowing what it was, Thorin’s nerves were stretched to the breaking point. How could he protect his people from something that refused to be seen?

Thorin tossed the wadded-up piece of parchment onto the desk’s surface. Since the Company’s secret foray into the blighted land of Faerie two weeks before, such interference hounded not only his dwarves, but the men of destroyed Lake-town, too. He’d been instructed to expect the Nazgûl to walk among them for a time, likely invisible to the naked eye and wreaking terrible fear upon them all, but he was hard-pressed to believe that the undead creatures described to him by Radagast the Brown would slink through his Halls fixing and cleaning. 

What, then, was the source of this? The men whispered that his Halls were haunted. _Haunted._ He bristled at the notion. No, there was another explanation, and one directly linked to Faerie. When he and his select group had returned to Erebor, they must have unwittingly brought something with them. 

The question was what. 

“Show yourself,” he demanded, scanning the room. With fists on hips, he watched for signs of movement. “You’ve naught to fear,” he said, attempting to gentle his voice even as his temper burned hotter.

Nothing. Like the handful of times he’d spoken before, his summons yielded no results. It was maddening. 

A rap upon the door ended his efforts to draw the creature out. “Come,” he snapped.

The door eased open, and his younger nephew’s dark head poked into view. “Is this a bad time?” Kíli asked, brows high. 

Thorin shook his head, one hand dismissing his concern. “No more than any other these last weeks,” he grumbled. 

Kíli’s lips twitched. As ever when discussing their new “guests”, his nephew responded with delight. “What did she do?” he asked, his dark eyes rushing through the room. Dressed in his travel clothes, his bow and quiver upon his back, Kíli looked to have been preparing to venture into the snowy world outside Erebor’s gates to add to their larder. 

Before Thorin responded, his nephew crossed the room. “The desk is moved,” his ever-observant nephew proclaimed.

Thorin folded arms before him. “I noticed,” he said in a dry voice. Then, “She?”

Kíli smoothed one hand across his short beard, dark eyes twinkling. “Has to be a she.”

“Because we lack sufficient ladies upon which to exercise your glib tongue?” Thorin dead-panned.

Kíli shot him an assessing glance before waggling a finger in his direction. “Now you sound like Fíli, Uncle.” Kíli shook his head and calmly informed him, “I heard one giggle.” 

“Giggle?” Thorin pounced. When had this happened?

Kíli leveled a look upon him that Thorin had not seen since Dís had last dressed him down for some infraction. “If you were kind to them, you might know more.”

Kind? To interlopers? “I am polite,” he said between gritted teeth.

Kíli’s lips quirked. “That, Uncle, I doubt.” He continued his inspection of the room. “Despite your rudeness, it looks like someone is taking care of you.”

Rudeness? Thorin scowled at his nephew. They were besieged by invisible creatures, and Kíli labeled it rude to question. Thorin little trusted one who would hide in so cowardly a manner, female or not. “Did you come merely to berate me, or was there a point to this visit?” Striding to his desk, he ripped the chair out of the way before shoving the heavy piece of furniture to its former position. 

“Stomping about, snorting like a riled bull… Don’t you think you are overreacting?”

“Overreacting?” Mayhap it was time to once more attempt to stuff some reason into his nephew’s head. _Give him a female, imaginary or otherwise, and he loses all sense._ Leaning upon the desk, he crossed his arms and glowered. “What part of unknown, invisible intruders do you not understand? We know not what it is we host, nor do we know its intentions.”

“Whatever _her_ intentions might be, she _cleans,_ Uncle.” Kíli crossed his own arms with exaggeration and a mocking scowl. “Freeing up our own people to focus upon more pressing needs.”

_Mahal._ Convincing Kíli that their new arrivals might harbor ill will was akin to convincing Bombur that food was unnecessary. 

A second knock upon his door saved Kíli from another lecture. “Enter,” Thorin called out. 

Fíli strode through the door with Dwalin’s new second-in-command at his heels, a dwarf formerly of the Iron Hills. “Uncle, enough is enough. Ríkin tells me that now it is not just homes being affected. Every bed within the infirmary has been moved exactly as the others.”

Kíli laughed, collected Thorin’s warmed beverage and tossed it back before Thorin could warn him off. 

“That beverage was tampered with, Nephew,” Thorin said.

Fíli’s brows drew together with concern, but Kíli winked at them. 

His temper pricked further at Kíli’s refusal to listen, Thorin concentrated upon his heir and Ríkin. Fíli, Thorin observed with satisfaction, saw the inherent danger of their situation. His blond nephew stared hard at his brother, his face devoid of its normal humor. The newcomer beside Fíli stood with large forearms folded before his chest, his prematurely gray hair and beard silent testament to the Ironfist blood running through his veins. The dwarf was only a decade older than Fíli, yet not a strand of brown or black hair remained upon his head or within his full beard. 

“Has there been any sighting of our culprit?” Thorin asked them. 

“Nay,” Ríkin answered, the glower upon his scarred face deepening. Like many of them, Dwalin’s second in command bore wounds from the Battle of Five Armies. That he remained such a fierce warrior with one eye clouded from the rake of a warg’s claws across his left cheek impressed Thorin. The dwarf was not easily swayed from his chosen path. Where many would have left the life of a warrior with such a weakness, Ríkin had trained hard to overcome his new limitation. “Not one sign. ‘tis unnatural, my king.” 

“Unnatural?” Kíli objected. 

Thorin lifted a hand, a silent command to quiet. Kíli grumbled but subsided. “You spoke with Lord Bard?” he addressed to his heir.

Fíli shook his head. “Not as of yet. To tell the truth, I hoped we would determine this all to be Kíli’s doing.”

_“Oi!”_ Kíli objected. 

Fíli grinned tiredly. “You must admit, Brother, some of these stunts seem like something you would pull.”

Kíli rolled his eyes. “Cleaning houses? Sweeping the floor?” His eyebrows wagged. “Do I look foolish?”

Thorin smirked as Fíli swallowed his response with difficulty.

Kíli’s hands found his hips. _“Oi!_ From my own brother.”

“Check with Lord Bard,” Thorin said. Fíli acknowledged the order with a dip of his head. Changing focus, “Double the guard,” he told Ríkin, receiving an abrupt nod of the gray-haired dwarf’s head in return. Thorin’s hand whipped up again to silence Kíli. “Have our people scour unused portions of the kingdom,” he said after a pause.

“Aye. It will be done as ye say,” Ríkin said. 

Thorin returned to his desk as his nephews and his junior captain departed. Though the dwarves and men residing in the mountain had necessities, and he admitted to himself the creatures had aided them much by adding to their supplies, there was a list as long as the Lonely Mountain was tall that needed doing. The mines had to be reopened. Thus far, they’d sufficed with the ore left behind when Smaug had claimed the mountain, but in their bid to supply the men with the tools they lacked – everything from simple needles to farming plows for the coming spring – the stockpile dwindled fast. They had no wool or animal skins but what the men had brought with them or their hunters managed to supply. In fact, had it not been for the tenuous accord with the elves, the little Erebor’s combined hunters managed to trap each day would scarce feed the children among the men. That only the elves’ provisions kept the rest of them fed this winter was a bitter brew to swallow. 

Accord there might be between elves and dwarves, but it still rankled. 

Dipping quill into ink, he scratched out quick orders, praying all the while that if the Ringwraiths _had_ arrived to spy upon them in hopes of ferreting out the location of the Ring or Daphne, they’d not be able to read the Khuzdul glyphs he used. While he held little doubt but that their troubles were Faerie-related, he’d leave no stone unturned. 

Thorin walked to the door, opening it to find a young adolescent of the race of men loitering outside, a habit Bard encouraged to aid in coordinating their efforts. The teen straightened. “Tad, I need you to rush this to Ori for me. Can you do that?”

The tow-headed boy nodded, his shoulders pulling back. “Yes, sir. I saw him aiding Master Bombur in the kitchens earlier.”

Thorin paused in handing over the message. “The kitchens?”

The boy bobbed his head in the affirmative. “They were rearranged last night.”

_Mahal._ Bombur would not be pleased. He watched the youth scurry off and closed the door behind him.

OoOoOo

Ori scanned Thorin’s note without surprise while behind him, Bombur’s muttered complaints abated not a bit. The cook banged pots and pans as he reordered the kitchen back to his preferred arrangement. If the unknown entities haunting their Halls had intended to help, they had severely misjudged this time. Bombur forgave much, but touch his tools or supplies, and the jovial dwarf revealed his formidable Longbeard temper.

Ori had expected this order to come. He had started digging through Erebor’s library five days past in anticipation of it. Like his king, the scholar doubted their new guests originated from Middle Earth, but with all he’d seen since leaving the Blue Mountains, he did not want to assume before doing his research. He quickly took his leave from the riled cook.

Journeying through Erebor’s halls to the library took the youngest of the Ri brothers a quarter hour. He smiled as the towering, carved doors came in sight. That the wealth of history stored inside was his province alone – albeit only for the time being – filled him with fierce pride. He dared to hope the families emigrating from the Iron Hills in a few months’ time would not include any scholars in their midst.

Ori pulled one of the heavy, stone doors open, then froze, his mouth forming an “O”. Stumbling steps carried him over the threshold. The dusty mess he’d barely begun to set to rights had been replaced with order. His head tilted back, bringing the second floor into view. Bookshelves in all directions gleamed. There was no dust. There was no disorder. Tables had been set to right. The floors were pristine, the marble polished to a high shine, and the hundreds of books that had tumbled from a rotted bookshelf to litter the floor had vanished. Returned to their proper abode, he suspected. 

A new thought occurred, and he frowned. It was doubtful that their “guests” knew Khuzdul, so the likelihood that the scrolls and books had been ordered properly was slim. If the helpers had crammed books into any available slot, it would take him years to find the wrongly sorted items and undo what they’d done. 

Right then and there, Ori decided Dwalin’s new second-in-command, Ríkin, had it right: these intruders needed to be rooted out. Ori’s ink-stained fingers dredged through his beard, such frustration as he’d never felt before boiling in his veins. “By _Durin,”_ he roared, stamping one foot. “If you cannot read, don’t be touching my books!”

OoOoOo

Fíli smirked as Bard’s frustration rose.

“It is a prank, Prince Fíli,” the man proclaimed with exasperation, tossing a parchment onto his desk. “We have enough with which to contend without creating for ourselves ghost stories and bogeymen.”

“Fair enough,” Fíli said, thumbs tucked around his two sword hilts. “And normally I’d agree.”

“But?” the man prodded, one dark brow winging upwards.

“But,” Fíli replied, “something or some _things_ walk our Halls. This is no prank. Of that, I am convinced. There is too much work being done for it to be a jest – none have the time to spare to construct a hoax so elaborate. Too many have heard whispers when in their rooms alone. Dwarves are always up for a good tale--”

Reluctant amusement lit Bard’s dark eyes. “Embellished tales.”

Fíli’s grin flashed. Bard knew that penchant well, having spent many evenings with Bofur. “Embellishing only makes the tale better,” he said. His smile faded. “We’ve found sections of Erebor put into pristine condition ere any of our repair crews arrived.”

Bard startled. “They were restored?”

Fíli lifted on hand in denial. “Not repaired, but the streets were swept clean. The walls and structures are free from any dirt. If not for holes in the walls and such, those villages are ready to be resettled.” He stepped closer to Bard’s desk, one blunt finger tapping its surface in emphasis. “Every piece of moth-eaten fabric or unusable furniture was in a neat pile, ready for someone to come and cart it off.”

Bard’s dark brows climbed. “Not your typical ghost story.” 

Fíli folded his arms before him. “That is the truth.” From beneath lowered brows, he asked, “Have you ever heard of such a thing? Do the annals of men record any creatures capable or inclined to such acts?” He hoped against hope the man’s answer would be an affirmative. Fíli could only surmise one other source for their unexpected influx of invisible helpers, and that was from Thorin’s jaunt to the realm of Faerie. 

The dark-haired man rubbed his lower jaw before shrugging. “Nothing to my knowledge. If the snows did not have Dale’s library buried, I’d suggest we check there, but as it stands…?” 

_‘twas a slim hope,_ Fíli acknowledged to himself. With a wave, he allowed the man to return to his more pressing duties, and headed away from the section of Erebor serving as temporary home to the survivors of Lake-town.

OoOoOo

Kíli’s grin grew as he detected the sound of feminine singing originating from his quarters. With utmost care, he unlatched the door and poked his head into the room, eyes sweeping across the seating area and hearth nearest the door.

His rooms had changed in the few hours he’d been absent, and he could only preen as his assertions were proved. Compliment the unseen helpers, and a dwarf reaped the benefits, for new pieces of furniture graced the room with fur cushions softening their wooden surfaces. His rickety table had been removed, and a solid piece of rich, gleaming wood stood in its place. A lit candle sat in the center of the table, and… Cookies? 

He dared to hope his kindred would keep treating their new helpers with suspicion. The more they groused and complained, the better things became for himself. Kíli scratched his bearded chin, self-satisfied. Breathless sniggers shook his chest as he noted the warm fire in his fireplace. 

Should he tell Fíli? _No,_ he decided. If his brother refused to listen to him on this matter, he deserved to forgo the royal treatment Kíli enjoyed.

The singing continued uninterrupted, the language unfamiliar. ‘twas not elvish. He’d listened to the beautiful Tauriel’s voice often enough to know the sound of it when he heard it. What, he wondered, were these ladies? In his mind, he envisioned hobbit-sized elf lasses. They wore shoes – he’d spotted the tracks one had left in her haste to exit a room when one of the Iron Hills dwarves had taken umbrage to her mopping up his spilled ale. By the foot size, he knew them to be small. What people they were, he didn’t know, but the idea that they were a hostile force was laughable.

Filching one of the cookies – by Durin, they were good – he tiptoed onward, trailing the cascade of notes towards the bathing chamber. Peeking around the open doorway, he spied more changes. The bent iron wash bin he’d used since they’d regained Erebor had been replaced by a porcelain tub, one big enough to relax in. Towels draped from a wooden chair next to the tub, and a smooth bar of soap rested upon the seat, replacing the crude mash of ash and grease he’d made do with before. 

No, he didn’t think he would tell Fíli about this. 

“Will you not show yourself so I can thank you properly?” he asked.

A gasp and the singing stopped. 

Kíli drew up his most charming smile. “These cookies are fabulous, by the way.”

OoOoOo

Ríkin slammed the door behind him, hale blue eye hard, and his lips compressed into a white slash. Foiled again. His pride was smarting – aye, it was! Three days since he’d ordered the guard doubled, and still no sign of the interlopers. His anger only escalated upon spying the pristine conditions of the home he shared with his two brothers, a home he’d intentionally ordered left a mess so as to spot one of the thrice-cursed creatures.

“Before you ask, the cleaning bandit struck again,” his younger brother commented in a dry voice. With hair the same silvery gray shade of his own, Eikin was the brother Ríkin had most resembled before the warg. His brother held a tankard of frothy ale aloft in silent, if irony-filled, tribute. 

“Ye were to _watch_ whilst we were away, Eikin,” he grumbled, shucking his thick coat and discarding it upon one of the heavy wooden chairs before the roaring fireplace. 

“Aye, and so I did,” Eikin protested, his dark blue eyes intent. “I’ve not moved from our quarters all this long day, I’ll have ye know. The front door has only opened once, and that was to allow Thekkin to return for the noonday meal.” 

Ríkin frowned. If Eikin said he’d not left, then he’d not left. _Mahal, what wizardry is this?_ If not for the fact that the Grey Wizard had departed Erebor weeks before, he’d harbor suspicions that the wizard was involved. He leaned upon the stone mantel above the fireplace, his hand a fist. Mayhap ‘twas time for more drastic measures. As the king had pointed out, their intruders had caused no harm – _yet,_ the more cynical side of him tacked on – but as he and Dwalin had discussed, they could not fulfill their duties in protecting Erebor with unknown beings slinking about with apparent ease. 

The king was loathe to use hunters’ snares, but what else remained to try? ‘twas a matter of pride now as well as security. He’d not let this go, though he little relished the idea of hurting one of the creatures if it was benign. Not that it was benign, he grumbled to himself. ‘twas not a dwarf, so it had to have questionable intentions. The king might trust in men and hobbits, but Ríkin would not be so foolish.

His brother’s swift inhale had him whipping around. 

Eikin pointed with his stein. “Look behind you, Brother.”

Ríkin’s attention followed Eikin’s direction. He froze, aghast to find his coat had been whisked away. With him nary three feet from it! “By Mahal,” he roared, at his wit’s end. ‘twas his duty to protect these Halls, yet the rascally creature acted right under his very nose. 

Stomping across the room, he swiped his jacket off the coat tree and shoved his arms inside, his full beard somehow getting mixed up in his haste. And – _and!_ – he heard a wee, high-pitched giggle as unseen hands straightened it out. With another roar, he wrenched his coat to him, his eyes blazing as he glared at the empty space around him. With no warning, he reached out, arms sweeping around him in search of the infernal creature. They came up empty, and his face turned red.

Eikin joined him, arms whisking through the air. “’tis unnatural,” he muttered. 

“Aye,” Ríkin grumbled, fists finding his hips.

“What manner of creature could this be?” Eikin asked. “Do you suppose we’ve attracted more of those Shire-folk?”

_Shire-folk?_ Ríkin barely repressed the eye-roll begging to be let out. “To my knowledge, Brother, that Baggins fellow cannot turn invisible.” His frown deepened. Could he?

Eikin fiddled with his braid, his first and only braid. _So far,_ Ríkin thought with a touch of pride, for Eikin showed signs of becoming a jeweler of note. His brother’s gray brows descended until only a hint of the blue of his eyes showed. “Could these kind acts be a front?” At Ríkin’s lifted brow, his brother continued, “A ruse to lower our defenses.”

With a grunt, Ríkin grabbed his weapons, strapping an additional sword belt to his waist and thrusting one of their eldest brother’s prized daggers into his boot. Hefting his trusty halberd, he yanked open their front door. “By Mahal, I’m going to find out.” 

“How?”

_“I don’t know.”_


	2. A Clue and Some Humble Pie

### Chapter 2

_2 February TA 2942_

Ríkin stalked through Erebor’s halls, eyebrows lowered and nostrils flared. The six, thick braids containing his silvery-gray hair jounced against his back with his every step. 

All around, he saw signs of tampering. Oh, aye, as his own brothers were quick to note, much of the tampering benefited them all: clothes and blankets mended, needed items materializing from elsewhere in Erebor’s bowels, and the comforts of home waiting when a dwarf retired after a hard day’s work. 

Such frivolities swayed him not. As Dwalin’s second-in-command, the burden of Erebor’s security weighed upon his shoulders. Unknown and unseen these invaders were, and he was none too pleased that every effort thus far to bring them to light had failed. In all his ninety-seven years, he’d never encountered the like. Prince Kíli’s coaxing had not done the trick, nor had Thorin’s outright commands. (He growled all the more at _that_ slight. Ignoring Prince Kíli? Aye, he could understand that. But to refuse a direct order from the king?) 

Ríkin caught movement through his clouded left eye and whipped towards it, his hand tight about his favored weapon, a weighty halberd handed down through his grandsire’s family line. An oddity, the weapon, even among the Ironfist House his grandsire had belonged to, but the weapon fit his big hands with perfection. 

_A rat,_ he grumbled, watching the wee creature scurry down the hall. His steps faltered as some invisible force lifted the rat up by its tail before his very eyes. “By Durin.” The creatures _dared?_ Before his very eyes? 

Weeks of frustration came to a head. With a roar, he charged, halberd swinging. The shrillest scream echoed through the hallway in response, drawing many an eye. The rat dropped to the ground, released by the unseen hand as his halberd dashed through naught but air. 

Footsteps raced from him, but before he could follow, a small body collided with him, arms and legs circling him like a child from behind. “Don’t hurt her,” a female voice begged. Ríkin’s nostrils were flooded with the scent of cinnamon. “We’ll leave the rats alone.”

Leave the rats…? The daft intruder thought he was riled because of the rat? Ríkin growled and dragged her from his back, free hand clamped tight about one scrawny arm. _Weak,_ he sniffed to himself. Just as he’d supposed. All cowards were weak. “Show yourself,” he thundered. 

Silence.

His temper climbed. “I ordered ye to sight, creature,” he said, shaking her once. Did the female believe he jested? 

Then he straightened. Was that a snide comment he heard whispered? His scowl deepened. Surely she could not be so brash as to _insult_ him? He stiffened, his temper near to boiling over. 

With a mutter, he abandoned efforts to reason with the obstinate thing. Let Thorin decide what was to be done.

OoOoOo

“Got one,” Rikin informed him, and at first, Thorin did not follow. But then, he noted how the junior captain’s hand was wrapped around nothing but air.

Thorin straightened. “Well done,” he said. “Very well done.” Thorin signaled Dwalin’s second-in-command to remain as he was. Swift steps carried him to the door. He picked up the wooden slat sitting beside it and dropped it into the metal brackets affixed to the door frame, sealing them all in. No one was coming in or going out. 

Turning, Thorin studied the young dwarf’s face, hoping he and Dwalin had taken his measure aright. Ríkin was young for the duties he’d been given, but Thorin had been impressed with the Iron Hills dwarf from the day he’d recovered sufficiently from his wounds to step in and aid in securing Erebor. With Ironfist blood in his veins, Ríkin was more apt to suspicion than the Longbeards, but Thorin judged him to be fair if gruff for even a dwarf. 

Thorin folded his arms before his chest. With brows lowered and eyes intent upon his dwarf, he said, “Some information that must remain secret may be revealed in the next few minutes, Ríkin. Can I trust in your silence?”

The dwarf frowned, right hand rotating the shaft of the halberd he held. His other hand pulled this way and that as the invisible being wiggled for freedom. Ríkin paid its struggles no mind, his blue eye meeting Thorin’s with a directness Thorin found reassuring. “Ye have my loyalty, my king. If ‘tis silence you’re needing, ‘tis silence you’ll have.”

Thorin inclined his head. “Thank you.” Turning his attention to where the invisible creature must be, he commanded, “Reveal yourself.”

Ríkin’s hand jerked to one side as the creature again wrestled for freedom. The gray-haired dwarf tugged the creature closer. Both heard the scrape of shoes upon the stone floor as it resisted. “Enough,” Ríkin snapped. “Concede.”

The intruder must have objected, for Thorin saw Ríkin’s gray brows fly upwards. At Thorin’s questioning glance, he explained, “Stamped on my foot, she did.”

Despite himself, Thorin’s lips twitched. “She?”

Halberd set aside, Ríkin’s other hand joined the tussle to contain the creature. “Tried to tackle me earlier,” he said. “Aye, _she.”_ To the female disputing his hold, the dwarf growled, “Cease.” He got hold of what Thorin assumed were her shoulders and drew her right up to him. “You’re days of sneaking and thieving—”

_“Thieving?”_ a female voice squawked. 

“Aye, thieving,” Ríkin asserted. “Why else hide from view like a scoundrel. Quit your struggles ere I hurt you, female.”

The unknown creature of Faerie said nothing, only threw herself against Ríkin’s hold with renewed vigor. 

“Show yourself,” Ríkin shouted, blasting the words in the general vicinity of the female’s face. 

Thorin scratched one eyebrow, wondering if he’d have an invisible _sobbing_ woman to contend with, but instead, the female roared right back, “You didn’t give me permission, you lack-wit!” 

The snort caught him by surprise. Thorin rubbed a grin from his face. Clearly she was not— 

Thorin’s eyes flared wide. By Durin. She yanked upon Ríkin’s beard, and with a vengeance, at that. 

Ríkin’s face darkened, but without warning, the dwarf grappled as if he’d lost hold of her. Thorin tensed. Would she fight him for possession of the bar across the door? His jaw clenched, and his hand wrapped around Orcrist’s hilt. Well did he remember what some of Faerie’s denizens were capable of. This would be his first confrontation with the creatures. It should prove revealing. 

“Uncle?” Fíli’s voice, muffled through the door. A knock followed. 

“Fíli, guard the door. Should anything invisible attempt to pass you, detain it.” 

“It?” the female shrieked in absolute insult. _“IT?”_

Thorin had no warning. Before he could draw breath, he was covered in a white powder that blinded his vision and clogged his nostrils. A heartbeat later, Ríkin bellowed his displeasure. Thorin pawed at his eyes, anger escalating, only to lose his balance and crash to one knee as a small body slammed into him. What he knew had to be the door bar clattered to the ground, and the door slammed open. Thorin heard Fíli grunt, followed by a wordless exclamation. He, too, received a face-full of the white substance. 

But the riled female was not done. As soon as Thorin had cleared his sight of the powder, another, sandier spray dashed him in the face. _Sugar,_ he immediately identified as sweetness filled nose and lips. And then…

“By _Durin,”_ Ríkin bellowed, and Thorin’s jaw unhinged to find what appeared to be honey oozing down from the crown of Ríkin’s head into his beard and braids. 

_“You,_ Ríkin No-brain, have no manners,” the female spat. “Why I ever thought you handsome, I’ll never know.” Another fistful of white powder slapped the gray-haired dwarf in the face, then all three heard light footsteps run past Fíli and from the study. 

Thorin’s gaze returned to Ríkin and found him nearly apoplectic with fury as he swiped white-caked honey from his face, his glare all for the open doorway. Thorin regained his feet, his pulse pounding in his temples. He’d suspected this interaction would prove illuminating, and he’d been correct. The female retaliated all right – with flour, sugar, and honey. Nothing that would harm any of them. Combined with the knowledge of the work she and her people had done on the dwarves’ behalf, Thorin began to feel the veritable heel. He’d bumbled the encounter quite spectacularly. 

_Not my finest hour,_ he thought with a sigh, ruffling flour from his hair.

Unbelievably enough, the situation soon worsened. Kíli strode through the open door, brown eyes at first hard and angry, but as his gaze swept through the room, they lit with devilish humor. “Right you are, Brother,” Thorin’s nephew proclaimed with a smirk. “I can see you do need reinforcements. Shall I go rouse the guard? Clearly, these Helpers are quite dangerous.” 

Thorin growled, frowning his nephew to silence. Little did he need Kíli crowing that he’d told them the “guests” were benign from the start. Thorin clobbered together the tattered remains of his dignity, slapping the powdery substance from his clothes.

OoOoOo

Kíli chortled the entire way back to his quarters. There they’d been – king, heir, and guard – served up quite well for their foolishness. He’d cherish the memory of a flour- and sugar-coated Thorin for many years to come.

Entering his quarters, he spoke, hoping one of the Helpers was listening, “My kindred are stubborn. Please deliver my apologies to Cinnamon.”

His nose detected a whiff of rose. He nodded, satisfied. No one else seemed to have noticed, but each of the Helpers carried with her a different scent wherever she went. If any alternated fragrances, he didn’t know, but if each remained consistent, he’d counted sixteen of them thus far. 

Not that he’d be sharing _that_ information. “Thank you, Rose,” he said. 

After collecting his thick coat, he donned a few more daggers and gloves, preparing to venture outside the mountain. Dwalin’s guards had sighted orcs. He intended to check for tracks between Erebor and Dale with a handful of Lord Bard’s men. They could not allow the orcs to barricade themselves within the abandoned town.

OoOoOo

After the disastrous confrontation, Thorin wondered if his invisible guests would depart Erebor in unified indignation, and he regretted that it was likely. Kíli was correct – they were a generous people. But Thorin had underestimated their stubbornness, for as days passed, his quarters continued to be straightened, and the little acts tending to his comfort – and his dwarves’ – continued.

But without the ability to speak with the “Helpers”, as Kíli adamantly dubbed them, Thorin feared disaster. If the Nine should discover the people…

“Mahal,” he muttered. Sauron would want to claim each of them for questioning, and Thorin had a sick suspicion the Dark Lord would desire to make full use of the creatures’ ability to move about unseen. 

Thorin would have to order his people to silence. None could speak with the creatures or about them. The Nine must not find out about them.


	3. Helper

### Chapter 3

_18 March TA 2942_

Pepper hummed to herself as she snapped cleaned linens onto Ríkin’s bed. A lock of tightly-coiled apricot hair fell into her face, escaping the hair snood she’d donned hours before. She paused to tuck it safely away behind one long, pointed ear. She eyed the results of her work, bubbling over with happiness. Ríkin’s room was spotless and cozy. The dwarf would never admit it, but she was certain he enjoyed the comforts she provided, just as she was convinced the other dwarves and men adopted by her brownie sisters secretly felt the same. 

The muttered imprecations that they’d been greeted with at first, however, had rankled. If the dwarves and men had not appreciated the work done on their behalf, if they’d wished the brownies gone, why had they not sprinkled salt across their doorsteps? It was a simple enough measure. Instead, they had grumbled and commanded the brownies to reveal themselves, but not a one lit the candle in accordance with Etiquette. No candle, no saucer, and now, no words at all directed the brownies’ way from even Prince Kíli. What was it she and her sister brownies must do to earn their new hosts’ acceptance?

Setting aside her grumpy thoughts, she vibrated with giddy joy as she closed her eyes… and indulged. A brownie’s ever-present awareness of _place_ washed over her. It was a decadent sensation, one that prompted her to wrap arms around herself and wriggle in delight. 

All her life, that amorphous and necessary brownie sense had moaned a hungry, forlorn lament. Now, a veritable feast of _place_ returned to her. The seeds she’d sown the first time she’d cleaned her host-family’s lodgings had blossomed with every subsequent swipe of her cleaning cloth. It deepened with each act of service. After months here, she knew every item, every inch of both floors and walls of this house, and they radiated back to her questing _touch_ with a chorus of reassuring _place._ And best of all, _place_ roared back in crackling, bonfire proportions from the three dwarves comprising her host-family whenever they were present. 

For the first time in her life, Pepper was warm, through and through. How glad she was that she had remained with Ríkin and his brothers after The Flour Event. Truthfully, it had been her fear of Withdrawing from lack of _place_ that had caused her to stay and not any boldness on her part. When Ríkin had brandished his halberd at young Hyssop, and then Thorin had referred to Pepper with such a scathing term, she’d feared for the brownies’ future. But with another month now under her belt, she was much more confident that when the brownies had followed Thorin, they’d chosen wisely.

Brushing the linens smooth, she left a small sweet upon a dish by the bed, something she did for the brothers nightly. Tonight, she deposited a honeyed cluster of pecans, a treat she’d copied after watching Bombur in his kitchens. 

Hands dipping into the pockets of her work apron, Pepper scanned first Ríkin’s room, then Thekkin’s and Eikin’s. _Clean,_ she decreed, satisfied with her work. 

A low chime drew her attention to the fascinating clock upon the mantel, an amazing thing of gears and weights constructed by Hyssop’s clockmaker. Pepper’s brow furrowed. It was really so late? Thekkin, the eldest, was often delayed in returning due to the demands upon his time. An engineer of note, it was his task to orchestrate the repairs of decayed stairwells and fallen walls scattered through the mountain. He’d been working longer and longer hours to prepare for the arrival of the first wave of immigrants from the Iron Hills. 

But where were Eikin and Ríkin?

OoOoOo

“You’ve been holding out on me.”

Kíli pasted an innocent expression upon his face as he turned to face his brother, unable to talk for the delectable confection he’d plopped into his mouth a breath before Fíli’s untimely visit. Chewing, he watched Fíli’s brows climb higher and higher as his gaze flew from the tray of sweets upon the table behind Kíli, to the many carpets arrayed across his floor, and finally to the rich robe in which he often relaxed – in private – many an evening. 

Fíli fingered the robe where it lay draped over a chair. “Where did you get this?” Then with more volume, “Where did you get any of this? Your rooms are richer than Uncle’s.”

Kíli finished chewing, swallowed, and gave his brother a bright smile. “I keep telling you, Brother, but you do not listen. Be nice and you reap the rewards.” Mindful of his Uncle’s stern, if baffling, admonition to never speak of the Helpers aloud, he switched to the silent dwarf sign language of iglishmêk, _*Did you know our Helpers dance at night to weave the most interesting fabrics?*_

Fíli’s eyes bugged out. _*You’ve seen them?*_ his brother demanded, his gestures sharp. 

_*Not yet,*_ Kíli said with a smirk. _*I saw only the fabric as it formed. But they laugh and sing while they dance.*_ Lifting the tray of confections, he asked his brother, “Would you like a sweet?”

Fíli ignored the offering. _*You’ve found a way to track them?*_

Kíli shrugged and set the tray down. Then quirking a lop-sided grin, he signed, _*Use your nose, Brother. You’ll figure it out.*_ And if he didn’t, well, Kíli could stand to retain his lofty status as the Helpers’ favorite dwarf.

OoOoOo

Ríkin tossed back another pint of beer, his hale eye upon his opponent. Gloin crooned to his tankard – some silly ditty about hairy dwarf women – and then chugged his own portion of the round. Ríkin vowed he’d not be bested in a drinking competition, no matter the other dwarf’s reputation. He had the Iron Hills’ honor to uphold, now, hadn’t he?

 _Aye,_ he declared to himself, pounding his fist upon the table and glaring at the redheaded dwarf who seemed determined to sway in his seat in a truly baffling fashion. Ríkin squinted, trying to bring the older dwarf into clarity, but Gloin remained stubbornly fuzzy. 

Beside his opponent, the toymaker, Bofur, snorted and asked with raised brow, “Now, you’re _certain_ you wish to do this, lad?” 

Did he think him so easily deterred from a challenge? Glowering, wondering why Bofur had taken to swaying just as Gloin had been doing moments before, Ríkin held out his tankard for a refill.

OoOoO

“I should slip salt into his ale.”

At Nutmeg’s frosty observation, Pepper whipped around, her eyes swift to locate her sister standing silently just inside the front door. Pepper hadn’t even heard her enter. 

One look, that’s all it took, and Pepper flew into the kitchens, placing her body between the keg in question and the riled brownie with vengeance upon her mind. What Ríkin had done this time to irritate her sister, she didn’t know. It seemed Nutmeg daily had another bone to pick with Pepper’s dwarf. 

Not that Pepper didn’t understand the sentiment. She hadn’t upended a vat of honey over the dwarf’s head for nothing. Ríkin, she’d come to find, was grouchy, opinionated, and irritating at times. But she’d also come to discover he was loyal, stubborn in his affections, and willing to shed his own blood to protect his fellow dwarves.

“I didn’t say I’d do it,” Nutmeg said with a little sniff as she followed.

Pepper arched one brow. Nutmeg was not above doing just what she threatened, and Pepper’s dwarves adored sitting by the fire with a mug of ale at the end of the day too much for Pepper to allow anything to interfere with that enjoyment. 

Folding her arms before her, she studied the sister closest to her in age. Like the youngest of the three, Clove, Nutmeg had inherited her selkie father’s heart-shaped face and beautiful, mannered tresses that tumbled in loose, sable curls to her hips. Pepper, meanwhile, had her own, peachy-apricot mess of curls from _her_ father – a siren who’d likely been the victim of the Old Ones’ twisted games when he forced himself upon her mother. She blamed him for her freckles, too.

“Don’t start, Nutmeg,” Pepper warned. Out came her knitting needles. 

And her last skein of yarn from Faerie. 

With barely a clack, she worked out her frustration in proper brownie fashion. “These brothers are my host-family,” she reminded her sister with needles racing.

“The Ri brothers are more deserving,” Nutmeg countered, hands upon her hips. “You should not have stayed with these three. Do you think they will ever welcome us? They detest outsiders. The Ri brothers, I’ll remind you, ventured into Faerie for that pair of naiads. _They_ are not xenophobic.”

Pepper grumbled under her breath, the scarf she’d had in mind forming beneath her flying fingers. “This is about Bilbo again, isn’t it?” No real question lingered in her mind, for Nutmeg had taken a dislike to Pepper’s Ríkin the very second he’d grumbled in what he thought was private to his brother that the hobbit had no place in a _dwarf_ kingdom. That Ríkin was not the only Iron Hills dwarf to feel this way pricked Nutmeg’s protective instincts. Ríkin had, Pepper suspected, become symbolic for them all in Nutmeg’s mind. 

“Yes, it’s about Bilbo.” Nutmeg snatched a cloth from her skirt pocket and swept it over the gleaming surface of the kitchen counter. The _clean_ kitchen counter. That told Pepper in no uncertain terms that this was more serious than she’d thought. 

Pepper forced her hands to still. She shoved the needles and yarn back into their proper place in her pocket. Stepping to her younger sister’s side, she placed a hand upon her shoulder. “What happened?”

Nutmeg’s head bowed, and her fidgeting halted. “Some worry is plaguing him,” she whispered. Her head lifted, and Nutmeg’s walnut-colored eyes – the same shade every brownie shared – glinted with unshed tears. “He hides it from the dwarves, but I see it when he’s alone. I never expect this…this…caring to be so difficult, Pepper,” her sister said in a lost voice. 

Pepper hugged her, understanding exactly what it was Nutmeg meant. None of the sixteen brownies to follow the strange, bold dwarf king from all they’d known had any experience with host-families. Faerie was no safe place. With the Old Ones, or echnari, liable to pervert any ties with their games, few had dared to embrace any into their affections other than immediate family. 

It left the brownies frightfully vulnerable, slashing their numbers, for a brownie without _place_ was a dead brownie. Her mind would turn inward in search of that needed security, driving her into memories or even fantasies. Withdrawing, they called it, and Pepper had seen brownies in the midst of it too many times, including her older sisters, Anise and Myrrh. The brownies in question died in days if not located and devoured sooner by Faerie’s many predators. 

To have a wealth of _place_ was a joy, but Pepper knew each brownie wrestled with an avalanche of feelings they’d not expected. They’d not known how with every act of service they rendered to their chosen families, the seeds of _place_ would grow in the family members…and with it, a deep and unwavering devotion. 

“What can we do?” Pepper asked, rubbing her sister’s back in circles. 

Nutmeg sniffled back tears and straightened, one hand dashing away tears. Her heart-shaped face with its fine webbing of tiny white scars – an ever-present reminder of the echnari’s sadistic cruelty – turned Pepper’s way. “You could let me at that dwarf’s ale,” she replied tartly. Before Pepper could blister her ears for suggesting such a thing, Nutmeg’s nose scrunched up. She took a deep breath and tossed her head. “I had a reason for coming.”

Pepper flicked her in the arm. “You don’t need a reason. You are my sister.”

Nutmeg’s lips twitched. “Poor you.”

Pepper beamed. “I’m glad you finally realize the burden I bear.”

A short burst of laughter broke free from her sister’s constraint. “Ha-ha.” Then more seriously. “Órvar was murdered.”

A thrill of alarm made its frosty way down Pepper’s spine. “Murdered?” She seriously considered snatching up her needles again. “I thought the healer, Nithi, declared it a rare heart ailment.”

Nutmeg’s head jerked in an emphatic no. “Comfrey was there,” she said. “Those ghastly things that have been haunting these halls?”

Pepper inched closer, lowering her voice. “The undead creatures?”

Her sister inclined her head in assent. “One of them caused it. Comfrey said that it poured terror and despair upon Órvar until his heart gave way.”

Pepper’s head reeled. “So that’s what he was about,” she whispered.

Nutmeg’s eyes sharpened. “What who was about?”

Pepper’s teeth clamped about her lower lip for a moment. Then with an inhale, she said, “One of them came into King Thorin’s study a few days ago.” Nutmeg’s eyes widened, and Pepper hastened to add, “Thorin pretended he felt nothing, but I saw perspiration bead his forehead. So I…broke Etiquette,” she confessed with a guilty grimace.

Her sister’s eyes somehow managed to widen all the more. “Again? What did you do, Pepper?”

Pepper’s needles materialized in her hands and the quiet clacking recommenced. The tip of her tongue touched her upper lip. “I stood between him and the foul beast. It helped, but not enough, so I took hold of his hand.”

“You did _what?”_

“I only held his hand, and he never indicated in any fashion that I had,” Pepper rushed to say. “The creature didn’t know I was there.”

Nutmeg raked fingers through her hair. “You may have saved his life,” she said at last. “Yew’s orders aside, we cannot let these things harm our new people.”

Pepper’s shoulders relaxed at her sister’s lack of censure. She’d broken Etiquette, and that was a fact. She dropped her gaze to her needlework, the rhythmic motions of the needles soothing. “What about the dwarves coming to live here?” she asked. Worry for the group traveling even now to make their home in Erebor rose up in her chest.

Nutmeg lifted a helpless hand. “We can do nothing until one of our hosts lights the candle,” she said a bit morosely. With a shake, she changed directions. “Your junior captain accepted a drinking challenge from Gloin this evening.”

Pepper’s needles stopped mid-action. Was he addled? “Gloin never loses.”

Nutmeg headed for the door, her lips curled in smug satisfaction as she glanced back over her shoulder. “Don’t be expecting him back anytime soon. He’s in the Second Hall. You know how this will end.” The door slid to a close in her wake with the merest click – Thekkin’s doing, for the engineer had insisted the stone door be set in perfect balance upon its supports. 

Pepper shoved the needles and yarn away once more. Yes, she did know how the drinking contest would end. The gullible dwarf in question would lie passed out upon the floor beneath the table for hours if not the full night. 

She frowned. If those monsters roaming the halls were now striking down dwarves as the mood took them, she’d not have them targeting one of _hers._ Firming his spine, she marched over to Thekkin’s weapons chest. He wouldn’t miss the dirk she intended to borrow, not unless the dwarf emerged from the fierce, focused inward thoughts that had ruled him for the last few weeks. Dirk tucked into her apron pocket, she retrieved her worn coat from where she’d hidden her things in a small corner beneath Ríkin’s bed and headed out the door. 

Pepper ventured down one of the broad streets making up the town of Khûr-Gorn. Like most of the small villages scattered throughout the mountain, it sat at the base of a huge, square space chiseled out of solid stone countless generations before. And like the other eighty-six other villages, her new home of Khûr-Gorn had seven streets, one for each of the seven dwarf Houses. 

It was too empty for her liking. She could easily imagine its streets bustling, the marketplace once more hopping. Pepper hoped that with the arrival of the immigrants from the Iron Hills, the bereft feeling of the place would disappear.

She hurried down the central thoroughfare as it exited Khûr-Gorn’s cavern and down one of a veritable maze of towering passageways, choosing the most direct route she knew to the Second Hall. This late, Erebor was dark, its sunlight-and-mirror mechanism that kept the Halls a golden glow during the day now dormant. The dwarves, she and her sisters had discovered, had excellent vision in the dark. Only a smattering of them used hand lanterns at night, but that option was not open to her until the dwarves gave permission for the brownies to live among them more overtly. Until they lit the candle, she and her sisters were perforce left to an existence of invisibility. 

Uneasiness filled her. The three, ghostly creatures that had slain Órvar had entered the kingdom nineteen days past. What their purpose might be, she didn’t know, but they roamed about at all hours, peering over shoulders and watching the royal family closely.  
The king pretended not to be aware of the creatures when they drew near, but Pepper knew otherwise. If he felt them, why did he refuse to heed Kíli when his nephew told him they must investigate the matter? 

As soon as she gained the Second Hall, her inner senses lit up with a powerful node of _place._ Ríkin was in the northwestern corner of the room, hidden behind crowds of dwarves milling about. Eikin, she frowned to note, was not here. 

A second, lesser note of _place_ brought a smile to her lips an instant before a female voice murmured in her ears, “Isn’t he dashing?” Her youngest sister, Clove, looped her arm through Pepper’s. 

_Who-?_ Pepper swallowed the question, following her sister’s gaze. Sure enough, there was Prince Kíli smirking at something his brother said. Like the other younger brownies, Hyssop and Comfrey, Clove was quite fond of the charming prince. 

Truthfully, Pepper understood why, for he was unfailingly considerate and kind. He might not have lit the candle, but he was generous with his words of praise. Or he had been, she corrected to herself. Something had caused him to go silent, but none of the brownies knew what that might be. 

Unlike the rest of the dwarves, Kíli and his family fell under the province of all of Erebor’s brownies. As Yew had declared before departing to follow her chosen host-family to Dale, the Durins were royalty, and so caring for them should be a joint venture, a privilege to be shared. 

“And isn’t our own Prince Fíli equally handsome?” Pepper asked, curious to see how her sister might respond. 

A tiny frown claimed Clove’s lips. Her sister slicked back a sable curl behind her pointed ear. In Pepper’s opinion, Clove was the beauty of the family with her clear skin, glossy hair, and dark brown eyes. Pepper fancied that if Kíli ever did meet her sister, he might well be interested in the brownie, but she also suspected her sister was displaying such an interest in Kíli to mask a different attraction that frightened Clove with its strength. 

Clove, she’d come to realize, made much over Kíli while her eyes stole time and again to his older brother. Fíli was an honorable dwarf, but Pepper worried where such an attachment might end. Would the dwarves ever welcome them out into the open? And if so, what would Thorin think of a brownie daring to yearn for his heir?

“He is ungrateful.”

Pepper’s brows climbed. That was high criticism from her typically shy and gentle sister. Before Pepper could respond, a stumbling figure came into view. She was stunned to see her junior captain tripping over his own feet, the sharp edge of his favored halberd bobbing this way and that with his every wobbling footstep. 

_He’s on his feet,_ she thought with a measure of pride. _That is more than Gloin’s other victims can claim._

“Prince Fíli is more deserving than _him,”_ a second voice intruded in a murmur. _Cicely,_ Pepper identified as her _touch_ went out and rang back with a hollow speck of _place._ Cicely’s note of distaste burned in Pepper’s ears as they watched her dwarf draw nearer in an unsteady path towards the hall’s exit. 

Pepper frowned, temper sparked at the unwarranted censure. Ríkin worked hard at Dwalin’s side to ensure their home and surrounding lands were free of orcs. Pepper had not yet seen one to know exactly what an orc might be, but she’d heard enough from the men when they’d dwelled within Erebor to conclude they were dangerous. 

“The Ri brothers need a brownie,” Clove added softly.

Pepper stiffened, recognizing a conspiracy among her sisters. The idea of forsaking the three brothers she’d adopted for others was anathema to her. No brownie ever abandoned her chosen family once _place_ was seeded, not unless they’d done something truly reprehensible. To insinuate her three were of that nature fired her blood. 

“We all ensure that those from the Company that helped save us are well tended,” she hissed, bunching skirts in her hands before whirling around to march after her dwarf.

OoOoOo

Clove’s lips pursed as she watched her sister follow after the dour Ríkin.

Cicely muttered something unflattering, and Clove frowned at the older brownie. “She is fond of them, Cicely. Be kind.”

“Kind?” Cicely said archly. “That dwarf is not kind. He’s suspicious of any outsiders, even your Nutmeg’s Bilbo. He makes no bones about wanting outsiders gone.” With that parting shot, the middle-aged brownie flounced off, her ash-brown curls bobbing with her every step. She disappeared into the throng of revelers, invisible to all but the other brownies. 

Clove sighed. No one measured up to Cicely’s standards but Balin, and he alone she served. If not for the other brownies, Dwalin would be living in a sty while his brother was lavished with every comfort a brownie could provide. How Cicely could fail to understand that ignoring Dwalin was a failure in caring for Balin, Clove didn’t understand. _A brownie should have better sense._

Cicely’s unkind words of criticism about her own daughter’s host-family flitted through Clove’s mind. _Poor Hyssop._ The youngest of them, Hyssop adored Nyrar and Nyri, her two dwarves. To have her own mother chipping away at them with her barbs… The sad situation was difficult for Clove to watch, and more for Hyssop to bear. 

Clove’s lips curled up as she heard Kíli hoot, but it melted away as his brother joined in. Something about the heir’s deep voice sent tingles through her, and she viewed her reaction with wary suspicion. With a sniff, she left the hall.

But she was unable to prevent herself from looking back one last time. Not to find the dark-haired prince, but to seek out the blond heir. Spitting a curse under her breath, she hurried away.

OoOoOo

Thorin’s eyes scanned among his dwarves. ‘twas good to see them so contented. Every day, Erebor became more a home, and he was proud to be its king. As he roamed among the revelers, heavy thoughts prevented him from truly joining in.

Helpers, Kíli had labeled their Faerie-borne guests, and help, Thorin had watched them unfailingly provide. Whether they ever revealed themselves, they lived among his dwarves and aided them. Not a one of the dwarves’ lives was not easier for their presence. That meant they were Thorin’s to protect, uninvited or not. 

He remembered the feel of a small hand wrapping around his days before when one or more of the Ringwraiths had approached. He knew not if it was the knowledge that he had an ally that had cut through the fear the wraith had stricken him with or some innate trait of the hand’s possessor. Little did it matter. The end result was a boon he’d not forget.

 _Mahal sent us our naiads,_ he thought, nodding as Gloin shouted a boisterous and slurred greeting. _Could he have sent the Helpers as well?_ It bore consideration. 

_Cursed wizard._ He’d give much to be able to reach Radagast the Brown, but that one had remained in Faerie, setting things to rights, and had given them no idea when he expected to return. Gandalf had departed months past to seek counsel from Saruman the Wise and had yet to return. 

_Four years._ Radagast had warned the longest they’d have to endure the Nazgûl would be four years. He hoped the wizard was correct. Thorin pinched the bridge of his nose. It had seemed a simple enough task at the start. Now, four years seemed a lifetime.

OoOoOo

First, Ríkin lost hold of his halberd.

Pepper grinned as it dropped to the stone floor with a deafening, echoing rattle. Her dwarf stared around with bleary eyes as if unable to determine where the noise had originated. She’d never seen him in any state but that of the in-command junior captain, and this sight was one she committed to memory. It was rare to see him look his age, for the false sternness to vanish and reveal the more expressive, youthful visage beneath. 

Only his family saw him so. And her. 

Next, he walked into a column, banging his forehead hard upon the rock cylinder. Pepper winced. He fell to his rump, one hand a-rub upon said forehead as he peered up at the column from beneath lowered brows. Had he been of any other race, she suspected her dwarf would have knocked himself senseless. Instead, he glowered at the masonry as if it were to blame, muttered words spilling from his lips. Pepper would have paid much to learn what he said. She smothered sniggers with one hand. 

An icy finger traced her spine. Pepper snapped upright, amusement abandoning her. Swiveling around, she scanned the darkened hallway around them, her chill gaining pointed teeth upon spotting one of _them:_ a tall, gaunt thing that reeked of vileness to her senses. Roughly the size of a man, it had skin the color of a fish’s underbelly and snowy hair. It lacked lips, and its nose was a sunken depression. But what unnerved her with each sighting was the empty pits where the eyes should be, pits that swirled with black, malevolent shadows. 

Were they ghosts? She’d debated the point with the other brownies before, but none had answers. All they knew for certain was that the creatures left no sign of their passage and one could see through them as if they were comprised of nothing more than air. 

Pepper kneeled before Ríkin, using her body to shield him. Her lips brushed his blunt ear as she leaned close, the fingers of both hands clamping about his upper arms. “Danger,” she whispered. A burst of protective anger swept through her. Ríkin did not see the creature, though she felt the strong muscles beneath her fingertips tense as he blinked down the shadowed hall, a frown taking him. 

_Stay away from him,_ she thought, glaring over one shoulder. Her right hand slipped into her work apron and settled upon the small dirk she’d filched. A wave of dread crashed over her, but as with her sisters, it found little purchase. She’d not survived decades of Faerie to be overcome by fear or hopelessness now. _You’ll have to do better than that._

She’d endured the echnari. This thing was no match.

OoOoOo

Ríkin heard the breathy, feminine warning of danger, but it was the fear growing around him that dashed the last vestiges of ale-befuddlement from him. One small hand was wrapped around his right bicep, and a whiff of cinnamon lingered in the air.

‘twas the lassie he’d caught once before. Of that, he had no doubt. Anger flared, died. Questions raced through his mind, questions he knew important, but his mind struggled to latch hold of them as the remnants of ale and the keen fear building around him combined to form a potent brew that attempted to rid him of his wits. 

The fear climbed higher yet, and the wee body before him pressed closer, one small arm wrapping around his shoulders. He’d never admit it, but a part of him suspected he’d be in danger without that cinnamon scent and gentle hold reminding him of bright things like affection and goodness, things he’d not given much thought to before. He was a dwarf, not a female, he grumbled to himself – Ríkin was certain none of his brothers or warriors gave the matter much thought, either. But as the smothering darkness stole over him, that brightness became his lifeline.

What caused this terrible fear? He’d experienced the brush of it a handful of times in the last month, but naught like this. He’d heard tales – aye, he had – from others whose hands shook as they tossed back their beers. None had seen anything to explain these…these… _terrors,_ he at last labeled. 

What new horror had entered their kingdom? _You’ll not drive us from these Halls,_ he vowed, knowing it was sheer dwarf cussedness fueling the oath. 

A soft cheek brushed his, and cinnamon filled his nostrils. As the onslaught continued, Ríkin endured as the wee Helper held him tight. 

Mayhap it was a good thing he’d not laid out hunters’ snares for the invisible Helpers as he’d once considered.

OoOoOo

Minutes passed while the creature hovered right behind her. What it sought, she didn’t know, but it seemed to relish causing Ríkin to quake. The dwarf’s face betrayed none of his struggle, but his flesh shook as the terror pouring off of the creature escalated. It was an assault, pure and simple, and _it_ delighted in watching him wrestle against its evil.

Pepper’s arm tightened, and she eased closer and closer until the dwarf was fully in her arms and her cheek brushed against his gray beard. Should Ríkin betray any sign of physical distress, she prepared to attack the creature, though what damage her small dirk might do, she couldn’t imagine.

They waited, locked in a close embrace that she thanked the All-Father Ríkin did not try to return. She did not know if the _thing_ could prey upon her fellow brownies, but she did not wish to find out for certain. Her left hand settled against Ríkin’s throat, her thumb sliding across the warm skin in reassurance. 

At last, the fear abated. Pepper craned her neck around, not moving as the thing glided away. The instant it was out of sight, Pepper abandoned Etiquette without a qualm and grabbed Ríkin’s arm, urging him to his feet. “Hurry,” she whispered. “Before it returns.” With one arm wrapped around his waist, she got the muddle-headed dwarf going, though his feet tripped over one another as he kept looking down towards her. By the All-Father, he had the bluest eyes, she thought, almost distracted by her first view of them up close. Though one was hidden now by a cloud of white, the other truly was the purest cobalt in color.

OoOoOo

Ríkin feigned a continued inebriation he no longer felt, his mind focusing upon this one chance to glean more about the strange Helpers none had clapped eyes upon. His nostrils flared time and again. Aye, the cinnamon came from her, right enough.

“Eh?” he slurred, rolling his hale eye as if unable to focus. Irritation flickered to life to find the stubborn female yet hidden from view. She did not know it, but the tables had turned. She’d not escape him a second time.

She paused, and from the feel of her beneath his arm, he knew she looked behind them. _Worried about the Terrors,_ he deduced. Did she know what they were? Had her people brought the things into Erebor? 

Only with rigid determination did he keep the resulting scowl off his lips. 

_She protected you._ That, too, he turned over in his mind. _Nay,_ he decided. The unseen Helpers had lived among them for months before the Terrors had arrived. _Unless they fled from the Terrors and were pursued._ Could the new threat be hunting the lass struggling to aid him home? 

He scowled at the darkened passages behind them.

OoOoOo

Throwing a glance over her shoulder, Pepper picked up the pace, prodding Ríkin to do the same. Her sisters would blister her ears with their complaints if they heard she risked discovery by the ghastly things. It was bad enough she’d broken Etiquette – _again_ – for a dwarf without permission.

The trip home was harrowing. Her skin prickled with unseen eyes – her imagination, she hoped. Once inside the front door, she pushed and shoved him towards his bedroom. The obstinate dwarf grunted and grumbled in his native tongue, happy enough with the main room and its warm fire. He dropped onto the sturdy, wooden bench she’d covered weeks before with fur pillows. 

Taking her with him. 

And suddenly, her drunk dwarf went from inebriated weakling without the strength to straighten his knees to unyielding captor. Arms of iron locked around her, squashing her against a hard chest. That fast, she found herself pinned in place on the dwarf’s lap, his silvery-gray mustache hiking up on one end. 

“Ríkin, you drunk fool,” she grumbled, twisting for freedom. 

A satisfied grunt. “Not drunk, lassie,” he said, every note of slurred speech or bafflement abruptly missing from his voice. 

_Uh…oh?_ She struggled all the more.

He tightened his grip enough to overcome her protests, and Pepper’s heart yammered as she realized her peril. He wouldn’t hurt her, she didn’t think, but why didn’t the frustrating dwarf just _light the candle_ if he had questions? Anger fueled her further attempts at escape, but he easily overcame them. 

Dratted dwarves and their unnatural strength.

OoOoOo

Ríkin grunted in annoyance. Silly creature. Though his eyes could not see her, their tussle revealed a dainty bone structure and musculature that were no match for a dwarf. Mindful of the ease in which he could inadvertently hurt her, he adjusted his grip.

Just that fast, she was gone with a speed that left him blinking in disbelief. He levered himself to his feet, admitting that mayhap the drinking contest had been ill-advised as the room wheeled around him. “Ye’ve naught to fear, lassie.” Silence. With fists upon his hips, his scowl deepened. Then a confused frown. Where had his halberd gone off to?

Ríkin growled low in his throat. No matter how he entreated the elusive lassie, she did not betray her presence again, though doubtless, his dam would argue that “Show yourself,” and a gruff, “Come,” hardly qualified as entreaty. 

Could she walk through the very walls? _Nay,_ he decided, brows lowered as he inspected the room hours later. She’d smelled of cinnamon, and the scent remained. 

His pacing steps halted. Hadn’t he noticed that scent wafting through his home on more than one occasion recently? His jaw tightened. Could it be the small female lived with them? He rubbed the back of his neck. ‘twas an odd notion, and he was not best pleased with it. He’d half a mind to hunt down Prince Kíli to ask him what he knew of the lass. 

His scowl deepened as an unexpected rush of possessiveness raced through him. He did not like the idea of the wee lass wrapping her arms around Kíli if those Terrors neared him. He did not much like the idea of her tending to Kíli’s home as she did Ríkin’s. 

A part of him knew he made not a lick of sense, but there it was. The next time he caught the lass, he had some hard questions for her.

Mayhap he’d set his mind to finding a way to nail her down. If the invisible lassie was set upon helping dwarves, she could remain with _him._

And his brothers, of course. He nodded once to himself. _Aye._


	4. Would You Like Some Cake with That?

### Chapter 4

Clove trailed the Durin brothers, hands knotted in her skirts, as they joined their uncle in welcoming Erebor’s newest citizens. A foolish anxiety had claimed her just that morning, and despite her best efforts to dismiss it as she tidied up her host-family’s main room, it pestered her right out of Stígur and Steinur’s cozy home and after the Durins. 

What if a dwarrowmaid managed to capture Fíli’s eye? 

_Kíli’s,_ she rebuked herself, yet it was a losing argument. Her gaze was locked upon Fíli like Bombur with his favorite nut pie. 

It was maddening. She’d never have acted like this in Faerie. Folding her arms before her chest, she stamped one foot, the sound buried under the low rumble of dozens of heavy dwarf boots. She shuffled along in the Durins’ wake as they exited through Erebor’s mighty doors. Clove squinted at the brilliant flood of sunlight. 

And there they were, Erebor’s newest citizens. Lines of armed guards bearing spears, shields and swords bracketed the path leading to the gates, and dwarves of all shapes and sizes marched forward between them. 

Why, there had to be a good three or four hundred newcomers, Clove thought with growing dismay. Erebor was big enough to lodge a thousand times this number, but there was no way the seven brownies remaining could hope to lend even the barest of assistance to so many. Even had the other nine not departed for Dale, sixteen would not change matters.

At first, she failed to distinguish the females from the males. Their builds were equally muscular, and Clove smoothed hands across her skirts to realize they also had beards. Beards! Though their facial hair was largely silkier and thinner than the males’, Clove wondered with a sinking stomach how she could win Fíli’s attention if a dwarf’s idea of beauty included such an unheard-of thing. 

Instantly, the pillow she’d been embroidering earlier appeared in her hands, and her needle set to work with quick, agitated precision. One of the females, a robust, curvy dwarrowmaid with gorgeous silver hair, broke from among the others and threw herself into Ríkin’s arms. 

Clove’s needle pierced the pillow and punctured her thumb. Was Ríkin married? Her sister would not respond well to this, she feared. Since the night Pepper had protected the warrior from the undead creature, Clove had caught Pepper following the dwarf with hungry eyes, an exact match for how Clove watched Fíli. 

_We’re both doomed._ She shook off the morose mood with difficulty and hurried back into Erebor. She had to warn Pepper.

OoOoOo

Ríkin’s arms closed around Tíra as his sister overflowed with excitement. Behind her, their parents approached at a more sedate pace. His sire’s chiseled features remained stern, but Ríkin detected the glint of humor within Dalkin’s dark gray eyes. His mother openly beamed at all around her, Tova’s face as expressive as her husband’s was severe. The small bells she wove into her beautiful red beard chimed, only adding to the air of joy that always accompanied her.

‘twas good to see them, and that was no exaggeration, though after his encounter with the Terror, he worried over their safety. Why, he grumbled to himself with a sideways glance at his king, did Thorin refuse to heed any reports of this newest threat?

Eikin joined them and then led the family away from Ríkin’s post. The brothers had claimed an adjoining house for their parents and sister, and the brothers had discovered it clean the very next day. _My invisible lassie,_ Ríkin had identified upon smelling a wisp of cinnamon upon the air. 

By Durin’s iron beard, she was difficult to pin down. She knew it not, but her one overt act of kindness had given him the information he needed to keep better tabs on her. Always, that cinnamon scent followed her. Though she never spoke and took pains not to be seen at work, he did not have his big nose for naught. 

Ríkin’s eyelids descended to half mast as an emotion too pale to label as satisfaction filled him. The beginnings of possessiveness that had been sown the night of his brush with the Terror had grown fast, that in spite of his normal suspicion of those not dwarf-kind. He ran a hand down one of the four braids in his beard. At first, he’d been right concerned that she might have a husband lurking about, but that worry was soon dismissed – nor did he have to worry about the young prince, it seemed – for the lass slept near Ríkin each night. His nose was certain of it. 

‘twas outlandish, to be sure, having an invisible lassie he’d never clapped eyes upon sleeping somewhere in his room. That he’d not tripped over her hinted that she was beneath the bed, and the small bundle of belongings he’d found hidden in the corner seemed to confirm it. 

He hadn’t touched her things or betrayed his knowledge in any fashion. The last thing he wanted was for her to choose another place to sleep. What if she ended up beneath Eikin’s bed? Or Thekkin’s? Both knew of his growing intent to claim her, so he didn’t fret over that too much, but what if she ended up beneath the Durin whelp’s bed?

Nay. He’d not allow _that_ travesty to occur. 

So instead, he watched and smelled the air like a hound on the hunt. There had to be a way to coax the elusive female into sight.

OoOoOo

Tíra’s eyes near fell out of her skull as her brother escorted her into Erebor and past the two princes. _Mahal._ ‘twas a miracle her jaw did not scrape along the ground in her wake. Dark hair, dark eyes and the most lively expression upon his face, the younger grabbed her attention and did not let go.

Perhaps this move to Erebor was not such a tragedy after all.

OoOoOo

Tova set down her travel bag upon the bed. Her sons had done well in selecting a home for herself, her mate and daughter, she’d thought upon walking through the front door. But then her eyes had seen more than she’d expected. Something was afoot, or she hadn’t given birth to four children. Her sons, Mahal bless them, would never have pressed the clean linens upon the bed, or left fresh bread with a pot of churned butter on the table in the main room, or provided feather pillows on the chairs, or a slew of other things she noted throughout her new home.

The house bore evidence of a feminine hand in every direction she looked.

Had one of her sons married and failed to mentioned the fortuitous occasion to her? Arms strong from decades of working the bellows and the smithing hammer folded across her ample bosom, and she returned to the main room with blue eyes narrowed and lips curved into a smile her sons would have recognized in an instant had they remained. Her daughter, Tíra, jumped to her feet with such an expression of panic that Tova wondered what it was her daughter attempted to conceal. 

She’d be finding out the answer to that later. For the moment, she directed her attention towards her husband.

“Tova, my jewel?” her Dalkin said, his gray eyes dancing though his voice was grave. 

“Dalkin, my mithril mate, your sons are hiding something from us.”

OoOoOo

Pepper stormed through her evening chores, more careful than ever to avoid detection. Her cheeks burned with mortification. She’d spent almost every night since _that_ night watching Ríkin sleep, at times folding her arms upon the bed, kneeling there unable to tear away. Before, she slept beneath his bed in brownie fashion – or at least, the fashion of those who had endured Faerie. All of them had learned to hide when at their most vulnerable, and she hadn’t been able to let go of that hard lesson. In Faerie, she’d sleep secreted away beneath a minotaur’s bed, or a Cyclopes’ or centaur’s, and never the same place twice to avoid detection. Here, she hid away tucked beneath Ríkin’s bed and had felt safer than at any time in her life.

But lately, she’d tossed and turned upon her pallet, unable to sleep for remembering the feel of being pressed against his strong chest. And he, taken! Ríkin did not engage in random displays of affection, so the female Clove had witnessed him greet mattered to him. Was she his betrothed? 

Pepper finished icing the cake she had hidden from view with her innate shielding ability, the drain on her energy stores perversely satisfying. She was tempted to use Thekkin’s dirk on the confection, over and over again, and leave the mess for the brothers to discover. Fists to hips, she glared at where Ríkin’s brothers chatted in their native tongue by the fire. 

That was when Ríkin walked through the door with the stunning, silver-haired dwarf miss at his side. The female touched his arm, smiling up at him…and Ríkin smiled back. Maybe, Pepper thought, she should use her dirk on _him._

Snatching up the cake, she flew to his bedroom and deposited the whole thing upon his pillow, careful to keep it shielded. 

_Ha._ Served him right. She’d been up all night preparing the other house for his family, only to discover her labors were all to his ladylove’s benefit! Her nose turned up. He hadn’t so much as done her the courtesy of lighting the candle. 

Feeling raw and ill-used, she gathered her belongings from under his bed, and stowed them beneath Thekkin’s. She’d retrieve them once she had a destination. Pepper folded her arms across her chest and glowered, waiting for the brothers to retire and the _female_ to leave so that she, Pepper, could depart unnoticed. 

The security of _place_ that had surrounded her wobbled. She’d have to seek another host-family. She could not serve Ríkin and his wife. The revolting idea sickened her to her core. If Etiquette had been observed, she would have gathered every candle in the house and dumped them upon the front stoop, signaling her imminent departure. As it was, she wondered what the point would be.

OoOoOo

Fíli’s head lifted, and his eyes narrowed as they swept through his bedroom. He abandoned the chair one of the invisible Helpers had situated beside the fire, hands finding hips.

 _Mahal aid us._ He’d thought himself prepared for the arrival of the Nazgûl, either clad in black robes or moving among them invisibly, but with the Helpers in the mix, every bump in the night caused him to wonder which lurked nearby, Ringwraith or Helper. 

He was tired from greeting the hundreds of emigrants that had arrived this day, and he frowned into his palm as he rubbed his face.

Were the Helpers truly what his brother claimed? _Aleks, you chose the wrong time to make yourself scarce._ Though his satyr friend hadn’t had a choice in the matter, his knowledge of Faerie would have come in useful right about now, as would his satyr-sight, which allowed him to see the energy signatures around all living creatures, be they dwarf, man, or animal. Aleks would know wraith from Helper in an instant.

Fíli’s fingers traveled down one of his braids. He was not alone in his room, though his eyes told him the opposite. Did these Helpers not appreciate a dwarf’s need for solitude? Did they not comprehend privacy? 

Fíli’s lips parted to ask as much, little though he hoped for an answer, but Thorin’s decree halted him. _*Do nothing to reveal our Helpers to the Ringwraiths,*_ his uncle had signed to him weeks before. The order had been spread to all dwarves, though not the reason why. 

Fíli’s blond mustache hiked up with his lopsided grin. Though the Iron Hills dwarves that had remained in Erebor never said as much aloud, they must believe his uncle truly addled to issue such a decree. _So long as they obey,_ he decided, _the truth will out soon enough._ The Nazgûl must depart someday.

OoOoOo

Clove hid in the shadows cast by the snapping fire in the fireplace against the heavy chest Prince Fíli used in lieu of dresser with drawers. Her knees drawn up before her and one lock of sable hair twined about her finger. Her gaze never left her prince. The way the firelight painted strands of Fíli’s hair gold held her mesmerized.

She’d done something to alert him to her presence, but for the life of her, she did not know what. Too consumed with staring at his strong features, memorizing every expression in the hope of understanding the mind inside. Perhaps if she understood, this fascination plaguing her would relinquish its tight hold. 

Oh, she knew some things about him. She knew he loved his younger brother and respected his uncle. She knew the way his lips would quirk when his brother ribbed him for a perceived flaw. She knew how he adored pale beers and could not abide the taste of lamb. She knew that he cared for his people deeply and that the scent of pine always caused him to smile. 

Why, she asked herself, was it this dwarf who moved her so and not the ever-cheerful Kíli? Kíli did not intimidate her as much. Fíli was the _heir,_ for goodness sake. A number of dwarrowmaids had betrayed their interest in the handsome dwarf that day by their bright eyes and welcoming smiles. She’d wanted to scream, standing there watching as the dwarves feasted at the welcoming banquet Bombur had arranged. She’d finished four full knitting projects in her distress, all of them with Fíli in mind.

Clove dropped her face into her hands. She knew better than to linger. The brownies rotated the duty of tending to the Durins among them so that all had the privilege of contributing to the royal family’s wellbeing. Today…had not been her day. Yet here she was, trapped within the prince’s very bedchambers until he fell asleep or the door was opened for some reason or another. If Angelica found her here in the morning, would the other brownie remain silent? 

Sighing, she folded her arms upon her knees, chin finding a home upon them. She stared at the prince, the deep ping of _place_ convicting her every time her senses reached out to him, for more _place_ rang back from the heir than the two dwarves she’d claimed as host-family, and their belongings, combined.

OoOoOo

Nutmeg watched from the shadows as her Bilbo chatted with Nori and Bofur over the remnants of the banquet. Too many dwarves studied her hobbit with beady-eyed suspicion, and Bilbo knew it.

She muttered unflattering words about them to herself as she folded the small stack of Bilbo’s handkerchiefs she’d washed that afternoon. Bilbo laughed with his friends, but her anger climbed. It was hard enough for him to remain positive with the _things_ roaming about. He didn’t need this, too. 

A thought ended her angry griping, and she pursed her lips. Perhaps there was more she could do for Bilbo – that the brownies could do for them all – than they’d believed. Nibbling on a thumbnail, she directed her thoughts to fleshing out the new possibility.

OoOoOo

Ríkin bellowed as he shot from bed, sugary frosting and... By Durin, was this _cake?_ He wiped a glob of it off his ear, inspecting it before dashing it to the ground. He knew the culprit, right enough. With another roar, he jerked the bed frame from the floor, one arm sweeping across the space beneath without success. His eyes narrowed upon noticing the lass’s belongings missing.

His lips thinned. Right. He knew the signs of a displeased female – how not with his mother and Tíra to educate him in the matter from childhood? What he did not know was what had turned his helpful lassie into a spitting feline. 

He stormed into the main room just as his brothers materialized from their bedrooms. Not a second later, their father burst through the front door with his old war ax in one hand, Ríkin’s dam right behind him. Ríkin held up one hand to silence them all and scanned the room through slit eyes, nostrils flared with anger and, aye, the intent to sniff out the one responsible for his messy state. 

“Yer wearing cake,” his sire commented.

Ríkin threw him a scowl. “Aye? I’d not noticed.” Then his frown transferred to his dam. She was _smirking?_ He growled low in his throat, dismissing his mother’s disloyal reaction. Folding arms before his chest, he asked his sire, “Close the door, if you would, Adad. Let none pass you.”

Dalkin’s brows climbed into his hairline, but he nudged his wife in the door before kicking it closed with one boot. 

“Thekkin, tell them about our Helper, aye?” he murmured. 

Thekkin bobbed his head, and his fingers flew in iglishmêk. Ríkin noted interest that quickly escalated to astonishment upon his sire’s and dam’s faces, but his focus was directed elsewhere. 

Ríkin stalked through the room, drawing scents into his lungs. She was still here, he thought with a large measure of relief, for how would he straighten out this mess if he could not find her? “Best ye come out now, lassie, for I’ll not be letting this pass.” 

Eikin signed him surreptitiously, _*The king forbade us to address them directly.*_

Aye, there was that, but he’d not be letting the lassie go. His temper was pricked, for unless he was mistaken, the cake he now wore had been made for him. And his family, of course. How it had ended up upon his bed, what events had gotten her dander up, he intended to ascertain. ‘twas past time for a reckoning. He watched the space around him like a hawk, remembering the burst of speed she was capable of. 

Ríkin had to speak with her – no help for it – but he’d confess the infraction to his king as soon as this was settled. He inhaled deeply, narrowing in upon her. Did she realize…? Aye, there she went. He lunged as he detected the barest fluttering of air and gained a fistful of invisible fabric. He had her now.

“If ye’ll depart, the lassie and I must talk,” he told the others. 

His dam prodded his sire out the door, mirth written upon her round face, and his brothers retreated to their private chambers. The doors closed behind each party, shutting the lass in with him. 

The instant he had silence, he reeled the struggling lassie in, swiped a second lump of cake from his beard, and smashed it where he thought her head should be. Based upon her shriek, he’d aimed aright.

OoOoOo

Pepper sputtered, cake smeared over her nose and forehead. She stomped her foot upon his, then hopped up and down as her foot came out the loser. _Unmannerly, uncouth—_

She squawked as big hands grabbed her about the waist and lifted her from the ground as if she weighed nothing. Her rear end connected with the unyielding surface of the wooden table, then a pair of blue eyes – one milky like a cloud-dusted sunny day, the other dark as one of the dwarves’ prized gems – lowered until they stared at her, almost as if he could see her. 

“Now, lassie,” her dwarf proclaimed, that stern face hard, his nostrils flared. “Perhaps ye would be so kind to tell me why it is I am wearing cake.”

When he hadn’t lit the candle? She made a scoffing sound. Not hardly. 

The muscles along his jaw tensed. His hands left her waist, but before she collected herself to flee, those hands bracketed her face, assessing it like a blind man.

OoOoOo

Definitely not a dwarrowmaid, this lassie. She’d not the nose or beard for it, Ríkin thought, and her ears were long and pointed beyond an elf’s. Their tips fair brushed even with the crown of her head.

He grunted as he considered his next move. For a dwarf content to let others do the talking, he was discomforted to be the one having to navigate this conversation. “The time for hiding is done. Show yourself,” he said, regretting the words ere they were fully spoken. His mother never reacted well when his sire used _that_ tone.

She growled. The face between his palms turned to the side and… By Durin! She bit him! 

Aye, he’d had enough. He roared his displeasure, and when she tried to break free, he hoisted her over his shoulder. She pounded his back with her puny fists. Like a spark ignited when hammer struck anvil, the absurdity of the situation hit him in full. Ríkin found his lips curling into a smirk. A laugh escaped him. Then another. In seconds, his chest shook with his chortles. 

He’d not had such fun in decades. Aye. That decided him once and for all. He was keeping her. 

He ignored her wordless protests, located her ankles and swung her free, holding her upside down before him. The action unlocked her lips, and a veritable landslide of words erupted. 

“You lout!” she screeched, invisible hands swatting at his ankles. “What is _wrong_ with you?” A couple more lightning-quick slaps that did naught but entertain him. “Did no one teach you manners? You could – oh, I don’t know – _light the infernal candle,_ you big dolt, but no. You never leave out the saucer, you never signal a desire to speak to me or see me. I’m telling you, I should have removed the candles a long time ago, but was I smart enough to listen to my sisters?” 

Before he could decide if the question was one he should answer, she bellowed, “No! And hanging me _upside down?_ You have some gall, demanding I break Etiquette. Break Etiquette? For this? For _you?”_ The scoffing sound she made set his eyes to narrowing. “Why I ever bothered to protect you, I don’t know. I must have been out of my mind…”

Mayhap getting her to speak hadn’t been the wisest course of action.

OoOoOo

Pepper batted at the skirts dangling about her face, blocking her view of everything but the fool dwarf’s unnaturally large, sock-clad feet, the words pouring from her lips without control. She left off the skirts and returned to whacking away at those faintly odorous targets. He hadn't even donned the clean pair of socks she’d left out for him!

“What was I thinking, choosing _you_ for host-family? I endured Faerie! I know better than to be swayed by a handsome face. But _nooo._ One sight of your fool self on the training field and what does idiot me do? I follow you home and select _you_ to care for,” she spat. These dwarves were driving her mad. Then muttering to herself, “And how do I get repaid? Fool dwarf brings _her_ into _my home._ Then he has the nerve to take umbrage to a little cake—”

The world tilted for a second time as he turned her right side up. Blood rushed from her head, and her sight went hazy. He grunted, a sound she was growing tired of, and before her sight cleared, she found herself pressed tight to his chest, one large hand at the back of her skull. Lips came down on her chin, corrected, then claimed hers, and Pepper quite forgot what she’d been mad about.

OoOoOo

‘twas one way to silence a riled female, and Ríkin figured he owed his sire thanks for providing demonstrations of its effectiveness during his growing years. The wee lassie – by Durin, he needed to learn her name – did not argue. Nay, quite the contrary. Her delicate arms came around his neck, and the lassie leaned in closer, returning his kiss with enthusiasm.

Mahal. The kiss seared him through, taking on a life of its own the instant she responded. Like whiskey in a feminine package, she was, a heady fire addictive as the finest vintage.

She’d been jealous. He’d not made sense of most of her words, but that last, he’d understood full well. ‘twas enough to make a dwarf shout in victory, it was. Or kiss the lass in question senseless. 

One kiss chased another. Ríkin pulled back, panting, only when he knew danger lurked in continuing. His heart pounded in his chest as he held her to him. The spicy scent of cinnamon warmed his every breath. 

‘twas beyond baffling, this development, for he’d not even managed to clap eye upon the female yet. Was she blond? Brunette? He’d not planned to kiss her, but the fear of her vanishing and his joy in her display of temper had goaded him past bearing. 

Ríkin could not regret his impulsive act. The lassie fit in his arms quite well, to his mind. He growled in satisfaction. 

Now, he thought, his lips twisting at the peculiar sight he made holding an armful of air, ‘twas time for some answers. Locating her nose with the pad of his thumb, he tapped it once. In a low rumble, he said, “Etiquette? Candles? I know naught of such things. I’ve asked ye to show yourself dozens of times.”

“Asked?” she echoed with a bite to her voice. “You call that _asking?”_

Her head lifted, its weight no longer resting upon his beard. He frowned, not liking that. He freed up one hand to press it back where it belonged. 

“Will you stop?” she asked, her voice thick with exasperation. “I’m not a child’s doll.”

“Nay, ye’d be a sight more biddable if ye were,” he said. At her gasp, Ríkin hid a grin and waggled a finger under her nose. “I’ll not argue with an invisible lassie.” 

“Well, you’re not going to see _this_ brownie until you follow proper Etiquette,” she snapped, batting his hand away.

_Brownie,_ his mind pounced, saving the label. He squeeze her hard, careful not to hurt her. “’tis your choice, fer sure, lassie. But you’ll not be getting down until I’ve seen your face.”

The brownie promptly grabbed a hunk of cake from his beard and smashed it upon his face.

‘twas war, it was.

OoOoOo

Tova smirked, one hand jingling the bells of her beard as she heard the high-pitched squeal followed by feminine laughter originating from her sons’ home. Though muffled by two stone walls, the joy she heard gratified her.

 _*Invisible lasses?*_ her husband signed, a grouchy look of disapproval upon his face. _*The Lonely Mountain is overrun with outsiders.*_

Tova sighed, her blue eyes darting heavenward out of her mate’s sight. Mahal bless him, he was a loyal mate and wonderful father, but like his Ironfist sire, he viewed new events or people with narrow-eyed suspicion. Truly, she’d thought her second son had inherited that same obstinate refusal to bend. That the unknown female had penetrated his prejudices made her want to dance a jig. 

Tova made her way to where her Dalkin sat and dropped onto his lap, chuckling as he caught her to the peal of small bells. Arms around his neck, she murmured, “That sound you hear, my mithril-headed mate, is of your stodgy son laughing like a loon.”

Dalkin collected her closer, his beard twitching as he grumbled some doubtless unflattering words beneath his breath. 

She tweaked the side of his beard before settling her head upon his chest. To be sure, the idea of her son settling upon a foreign maiden shocked her, but she wanted little ones scurrying beneath her feet. Little ones she didn’t have to carry, she corrected herself with a second smirk. Before this day, she’d have pinned her hopes upon Eikin or Tíra. 

Still, her husband had a point. They knew nothing of these Helpers. Come morning, that would have to change.

OoOoOo

Pepper wrestled with the dwarf, unable to stop laughing. The serious, no-nonsense junior captain had engaged in a cake fight. He’d _tickled_ her.

“Ríkin,” she protested around more breathless giggles, “you don’t play fair.” Their struggle had spread the cake and frosting until it covered them both from head to toe with sticky streaks. Ríkin had laughed, a deep, barrel-roll of a laugh that had twisted her belly into knots. 

Pepper tried to blow a hank of sugar-clumped hair from her face, her body folded over and dangling from the arm he had about her lower belly. She propped herself up using his knees and craned around to look up at him. Then she sniggered. “You,” she managed. “You look ridiculous.”

“Aye.” Her dwarf looked decidedly disgruntled. “While I see naught of you, not even the frosting I left upon yer face.”

“It’s good to be a brownie,” she sang back, trying to no avail to straighten. Her innards ached from all the laughter. 

He muttered something, and she found herself hauled into his arms, one arm beneath her bent knees. She picked a hunk of frosting from his beard and plopped it into her mouth, humming to herself in pleasure. In Faerie, there’d been no time for sweets. But jocularity and play? They were what had kept Pepper and many of the brownies alive, staving off despair. She’d missed such silliness in the busy weeks she’d been in Erebor. 

Pepper threw her arms around his neck and kissed his cheek. “Thank you, Ríkin.” 

He peered down at her through his good eye. “Yer a peculiar lassie.”

OoOoOo

A fist pounded upon the front door, and Ríkin scowled at the interruption. His brothers moseyed back into the room. Iron-haired Thekkin smiled at Ríkin’s disheveled appearance, and Eikin stared with mounting disbelief at the cake particles splattering walls, table, and floor.

With a warning look that he’d not welcome their comments, Ríkin deposited the lassie in Thekkin’s arms. “Hold her.” He marched to the door with ill grace. 

Then a glimmer of satisfaction. Interruption or not, he’d won that round, for twined about two fingers, he’d managed to filch strands of her hair. He glanced at the digits, purring inside to see the pale red strands there. _A redhead._ Ríkin purred to himself, inordinately pleased. His dam had often lamented being the sole member of the family without the gray hair that was their sire’s heritage. She’d get a right kick out of this development.

Upon opening the door, his good mood disappeared. One of his guards stood at attention, a pinched look upon his bearded face. “Aye?” Ríkin demanded.

“Orcs,” Gráim informed him, handing him a missive. That the warrior struggled not to gape at Ríkin’s unkempt appearance would have been amusing had the circumstances not been so serious.

Ríkin scanned the missive quickly. Orcs had dared to raid one of Dale’s small farming settlements, murdering the people and torching their barns and houses. He growled to himself. The handful of farming settlements had scarce been constructed, and now this. The Lord of Dale asked for the dwarves of Erebor to aid in hunting the foul beasts down. The king said aye, and Dwalin had asked Ríkin to spear Erebor’s efforts. 

Ríkin heartily agreed with both king and captain. By Durin, he’d not have orcs attacking people in their domain. His hand crushed the parchment. “Gather Litar and Fraeg’s dwarves. Tell the stables we’ll be needing ponies. We ride.”

Gráim saluted and rushed off. 

Closing the door, Ríkin said, “Orcs.” He lifted the fingers with the tell-tale strands of red. “I’ll be having your name now, lassie,” he said as he collected his gear. ‘twas on the tip of his tongue to also demand she show herself, but he’d no time for an argument. That would have to await his return. His eyes gleamed. Truth be told, he looked forward to their next bout. There would be kisses, there would, and laughter. Both which had been absent from his life and unmissed. Until now. 

Thekkin grappled as if he’d lost something, but before Ríkin’s temper escaped him at the thought of her using this moment to flee, small hands helped him buckle his sword belt into place. 

“Pepper,” she told him, her invisible hands next offering up his daggers one at a time. 

‘twas a fitting name with her temper. Brusquely, he informed them, “Like as not, I’ll be gone for a fist of days at the least.” If orcs had breached their patrols this far, he’d need to scour the countryside to be certain there were no others. Gruffly, he told the lassie, “I expect yer things back in my room when I return, aye?”

“Your room?” Eikin echoed. His younger brother’s grin flashed. 

Thekkin glowered, disapproval written upon his face. “Yer room?”

Ríkin scowled in insult. “Naught happened. The lassie sleeps beneath my bed.”

“You knew?” she demanded.

Obviously. Leaning closer to where he knew she stood, he asked, “Why?”

“Why do I sleep there?” A tentative wee voice.

He nodded shortly.

“Can we discuss this later?”

Ríkin responded with a lifted brow. 

“You’re like a dog with a bone, Ríkin,” she said sourly, earning a snort from Eikin. “Oh, do be quiet, Eikin.”

Eikin flashed Ríkin a second grin. Ríkin folded his arms before him, gaze not wavering from the brownie’s location. He was pressed for time, but he refused to let the matter drop even when she urged him into his heavy coat.

“Fine,” she said at last. Her hands shooed his away to seal the buttons on his coat. “It’s safe.”

He scratched at an itch beneath his matted beard. “Safe?” 

“Faerie wasn’t,” she said flatly, her fingers patting his chest to signal she was done. “Thorin saved us,” she added in a small voice. “Our homeland… It was bad, Ríkin. Ask him. I won’t discuss it.” Ríkin’s gaze swept to his brothers. Aye, they’d be asking Thorin about this Faerie, and that soon. 

“Ye’ll return your things?” he asked.

“I’ll return my things,” she said with a tiny sniff.

“Ye’ll not be leaving our home?”

“You’re my family,” she said, as if leaving was unthinkable. A worry he’d not known he carried fell away. 

Her fingers ran through his beard, dislodging cake clumps, and ‘twas all he could do not to snatch her to him. Little did she know her peril as she continued, “I only leave to see to the needs of those without their own brownies who require help. And the king’s family.”

Ríkin’s muscles tightened. He did not want her near Kíli. Well did he remember Kíli’s remarks about the Helpers, and he did not like the idea of her tending to the prince. At all.

“You take care of the king, too?” Eikin piped up, a vaguely hurt look upon his face. Ríkin almost interrupted with his own questions, but Eikin’s short glance stopped him in his tracks. Better it be his brother who voice displeasure at sharing their brownie than Ríkin.

“We all take turns,” she said with exasperation. “They are _our_ rulers, too.” In a different voice, “I expect you to be careful.”

Using hands to locate her face, he stole a last kiss, reluctant to break away. “I know not yer ways, so I’ll say it plain. Dwarves do not exchange kisses lightly. I’ll not be sharing yer affections.” 

He felt her nod between his palms. 

‘twas not the resounding affirmation he’d hoped, but Ríkin grunted in satisfaction, hefted his halberd and headed out the door. Time enough to discuss placing his braid in her hair when he returned.

OoOoOo

Clove shuddered as the foul things conceded defeat and left the same way they had come. Fíli’s flesh shook as if with ague, his breaths labored. He’d endured a concerted attack by two of the monsters, and the battle had taken its toll.

She stroked his hair. “They’re gone,” she whispered, eyes fixed upon the door the creatures had passed through as if it was air. That they could walk through doors had been an unsettling discovery. If doors, then walls, likely, too – a revelation she promised herself she’d share with her sister brownies come morning. 

As well as the epiphany she’d had during the attack. She’d been desperate as she’d watched Fíli wrestle with the dread and despair they poured down upon him. Blocking the waves of dark emotion the things focused upon him with her body had helped just as Pepper had claimed, but not nearly enough. 

It was then that she’d remembered. Every time he smelled the scent of pine, the prince smiled. What memory that clean fragrance brought to mind, she didn’t know, but she knew from experience what a powerful trigger scent could be. When the battle had waged hardest, she’d scrounged some of the pine needles she’d stowed in her work smock as a memento of him - an embarrassing act at the time, but a boon now. She’d crushed them under his nostrils, careful not to spill any and betray her presence. 

It had helped. The dwarves’ Eru be praised, it had worked. 

Clove would not leave Fíli this night. It was becoming plain that the creatures had definite targets in mind, and Fíli was one of them. The brownies were going to have to do something to better protect the dwarves in question. They certainly could not sit back and watch these attacks continue.

OoOoOo

Fíli knew he should move. His weight had to be crushing the small, female Helper behind him, but he could not prod his exhausted body to budge. The smell of pine lingered, mixing with the spicy aroma of clove. Both reminded him of winters in Ered Luin, happy times with his mother, Dís, and his father and uncle.

 _Mahal._ How had she known the scent of pine would bolster him so? He little cared about the violation of privacy now. Only gratitude remained, for if not for her support, Kíli might well be targeted ne—

He tried to bolt upright. “Kíli,” he managed.

The body beneath him stilled. Fingertips brushed the side of his face. “Stay here,” she whispered. “I’ll get him. I cannot guard you both with him elsewhere.”

“No,” he protested, his voice finding strength. He reached out and managed to grab hold of fabric. A skirt? “Take me to him.”

A silent moment, then small hands tucked under his arms, small hands that were surprisingly strong for their size. She was no dwarf, but she was not weak. Questions rose in his mind, but without knowing if any of the Nazgûl remained, the less he betrayed her presence, the better. Already, the Helpers’ secret might be out because of her kindness this night.

Stumbling from his quarters, he frowned. What was her name?


	5. A Plan of Action

### Chapter 5

Clove sat upon the big, battered chest at the foot of Kíli’s bed, watching over her two charges and winding one lock of hair around her finger. There she stayed until a glow illuminated the crack beneath the door, announcing the sun’s return. Erebor’s mirrors once more flooded the halls of the dwarf kingdom with light. 

The two brothers slept on, Fíli’s head near the foot of the bed with his brother’s feet inches from his nose. Kíli lay sprawled out with arms thrown to either side, his mouth open, and one leg dangling off the far edge of the bed. Adorable, she thought, but her attention remained upon Fíli. His face was buried in the crook of one arm, and a snore emerged from the hollow he’d created, one that amused Clove to no end. 

With a quiet sigh, she slipped from the chest. The creatures had not returned, and Clove wondered if perhaps they couldn’t. Did the attacks drain them? She nibbled on her thumb nail, worrying over the point. She had to discuss this with her sisters, for she refused to sit back and wait for one of the ghosts to catch Fíli, Kíli, or Thorin alone. 

The night had convinced her of one thing. It was past time for the brownies to act.

OoOoOo

Dawn was not far off. Pepper sat upon a chair near the low burning fire, finger-combing her tangled hair, her thoughts full of Ríkin.

That stubborn dwarf had taken her by surprise. It had taken Pepper hours to clean her tresses of all the cake and icing Ríkin had smashed into its dense mass. She’d snickered to herself at every remembrance of the event during the night, her toes curling in pleasure to remember the shared laughter…and the dwarf’s bold kisses. 

During the worst of Faerie’s assaults, she’d often dreamed of a day when she’d find a male to spark her interest. Ríkin…was not what she’d expected. Her lips curled as she tackled another knot in her hair. Her fantasies had often centered around a selkie during those dark years – how not, with her step-father and brothers? 

Now, it seemed her heart was fixed upon an opinionated, grouchy dwarf. How had it happened? The suddenness more than anything was what kept her up all night, probing her emotions as she tried to make sense of it all. One thing was for certain – her heart was engaged and refused to be dissuaded.

The front door burst open, startling her, and a red-headed, buxom dwarf with bells in her beard breezed inside. Tova, she realized. Ríkin’s mother. 

Pepper sat, fingers stuck in her hair for a half second as the lady hummed her way into the main room, not seeming to care that Eikin and Thekkin were still abed. Tova’s beard jingled with every purposeful stride, and a smile danced upon her lips as she looked around with warmth that could not hide the steely determination beneath. A basket was slung over her left arm, and in her right hand, she carried an earthen jug. 

Pepper climbed to her feet as the dwarrowdam set the basket and jug upon the table, Tova’s demeanor one of perfect ease. 

Watching Tova, Pepper fought off a sudden wave of grief. How she missed her mother. Was Poppy safe? And Tien, the selkie who had raised her as his own, how did he fare? Were they finding war-torn Earth more hospitable than Faerie? Her mind filled with pictures of Tyr, Lorn, and Solt, her three selkie brothers, and sorrow filled her. Her head bowed as she submersed herself in _place,_ taking comfort in Eikin and Thekkin’s bright nodes. 

_You knew the cost,_ she admonished herself. Poppy had as well when she’d ordered Pepper to grab her sisters and follow the dwarf king. Chances were, they would not meet again in this life, and Tova’s presence brought that home for the first time in months. 

The dwarf matron placed her basket upon the big, square table to one side in the main room. “Alright then,” she said in a low, business-like voice. “The king has commanded us not to address you, Helper, but I’ll not sit back without knowing more about the maid who has captured my Ríkin’s attention.”

What? Pepper’s spine snapped straight. Thorin had _ordered…?_

“Come, speak with me,” Tova said. 

Pepper stared. If Thorin had decreed for them to be silent, how could she justify speaking when no one had lit the candle? The joy of the night before waned. Would Ríkin be penalized for his transgression?

Tova hummed, brow furrowed. With an abrupt nod of the head, she walked through the house, invading her sleeping sons’ rooms and disturbing their rest. Both grumbled, rolled over, and once more drifted off. Tova continued on, peeking under beds, opening cupboards – Pepper’s eyes widened in disbelief – and peering around the curtain into the copper tub in the water closet. 

At last, Tova returned to the main room. The dwarf folded her strong arms across her chest, humming all the while. With a second nod, she trooped over to the table, dragged the basket across the table’s surface to her side, and lifted food from within it. 

What was this about? 

A plate with cheese was set down first. Next to it appeared a loaf of bread, its smell strange to Pepper’s nose. Pepper leaned in close, sniffing. Was it a traditional bread, perhaps? As she peered at it curiously, Tova proceeded to unveil a spicy sausage of some sort, a pot of mustard, and a bowl of hot eggs mixed with vegetables. 

Once the food platters were placed, dishes were drawn from the basket and set out. Two of them, one on either side of the table. Pepper felt excitement rising within her, watching with bated breath as Tova grabbed a couple candles from elsewhere and plunked them down on the center of the table. She lit a twig in the fireplace’s glowing embers and used it to set the candlewicks to light.

Tova seated herself, hands folded upon the table, and said, “Now. Will ye join me?”

Chills raced up and down Pepper’s spine. Tova had lit the candle.

OoOoOo

Tova near cackled with glee as slowly, like the most timid of creatures, the Helper revealed herself. At first, her Ríkin’s chosen seemed a ghostly outline, but with each breath, her shape took on density. Wet curls dangled down her back, the length damp and knotted, and freckles dotted a face both round and expressive. The lass’s pointed ears, however, gave Tova pause. She’d never seen the like.

Tiny, Tova thought. The female was no more than a hand taller than the hobbit, and slender – too slender. _She must eat more,_ she instantly decided. And while the Helper’s clothes might be clean and neat, they were old, that was plain. _A fellow redhead._ Tova happily jangled the bells within her beard as the Helper lass seated herself in the opposite chair with slow reserve. 

“I didn’t think any of you knew to light the candle,” the Helper said in a hesitant voice.

 _Light the candle._ Hmm. Fool men. Good manners would have cleared up this misunderstanding quickly enough, but she bet herself one of Bombur’s delectable cakes that none had considered it. She sniffed. _We need a queen._ The sooner Dís arrived, the sooner some sanity would be restored in their relations with others, Tova was sure. 

Tova’s head tilted to the side, finding the Helper exotic and strange, but not the monstrous, green-skinned creature Eikin had privately expressed a fear of discovering. She smiled kindly at the Helper as she repressed a good chortle at her youngest son’s expense and prepared her a plate. “Eat, child. We will talk.” Pouring them both mugs of gingered kvass, she broke the ice by recounting an amusing event from Ríkin’s childhood.

OoOoOo

Pepper was shocked at how quickly it happened. She found herself at ease, laughing at Tova’s anecdotes about Ríkin and his brothers as children. If she’d had any fears where Tova was concerned, they were gone in minutes.

The conversation turned, and in return, Pepper told Tova…everything. She answered Tova’s questions about Faerie, her family, and the horrors the brownies had experienced. She explained Etiquette, the candle and the saucer. At the dwarrowdam’s insistence, Pepper even relented and showed Tova the ragged scar across her belly, a jagged thing that stretched from hip to hip. The injury had been courtesy of a minotaur in an echnari game that had almost claimed Pepper's life and sanity. 

Thankfully, the topic moved on to subjects less painful shortly thereafter. How long they chatted, undisturbed, Pepper was not sure, but they ended up upon the wooden bench before the fire, Tova gently teasing the snarls from Pepper’s hair while laughing as Pepper gave her a detailed account of how her hair had come to be in such a deplorable state. 

It was Eikin who interrupted them, the dwarf tripping over his feet when he caught sight of them. He gaped, Pepper decided, like a fish. Interest flared, but then his face turned not jolly as Pepper had anticipated, but concerned. “Amad,” he reproved, “ye know the king commanded us not to speak with our brownies.”

OoOoOo

Tova considered hitting her youngest over the head with a pillow as the brownie blinked from sight, but then she conceded – aye, he was right. She’d assuaged her worries a good hour before, but she’d enjoyed Pepper’s company. She was pleased with her son’s choice, very pleased. Tova patted Pepper’s hand and said, “I believe I’ll seek audience with the king.”

Pepper’s smaller hand gripped Tova’s before slipping away. Tova sipped her gingered kvass, amusement sparkling through her at the sight of her youngest son. His braids were a mess, and his hair sloped to one side atop his head. 

Standing, she told her son, _*From now on, leave out a saucer of liquid at night. Cream, ale, it matters not.*_

Eikin’s expression turned perplexed. “Amad…”

 _*Do it. Your brownie is too thin.*_ Her irritation with the men folk returned. _*They cannot eat of our food unless you do so. The brownies have been scrounging for food all this while. The saucer is the invitation to share in our provisions.*_

Eikin’s eyes bugged out, and Tova was pleased to see the fierce frown that followed. “I’d say ye were teasing, but I know yer not.”

“No,” she told him. “See to it you fix that.”

Her son’s head bobbed with hearty agreement, doing much to squelch her ire. “Aye, Amad.” Then coming to her side, Eikin ran a hand down her beard with affection. “How did ye do it?”

Tova bestowed a mysterious smile upon her son. Admit it was a chance discovery? _Never._ “We ladies have our ways.”

OoOoOo

Pepper clamped her tongue between her teeth as she dug through the basket of scrap fabric and rags, searching for the right color to add to the rag-rug she was set upon creating. Nutmeg sat to her left weaving reeds into baskets, and Clove was situated beyond her with a sewing project.

The brownies had gathered for the first time since Yew had departed, utilizing the same large, nondescript house they shared in an unpopulated part of Erebor for their laundry and bathing needs. In Pepper’s opinion, this meeting was past due. Much had happened, and much needed to be done. She listened as both Clove and Nutmeg informed the others of their discoveries…and their fledgling plan.

Though Pepper listened to her sisters, a more immediate concern distracted her. Pepper’s gaze returned time and again to the young brownie upon her right. At thirty-three, Hyssop was the equivalent of a sixteen year old human. The chestnut-haired brownie should be full of mischief and fun, but instead, Hyssop slumped with a weariness of spirit more fitting upon a crone. Her angular face was drawn and dark circles underscored each eye. 

Pepper knew exactly who to blame. She only just prevented the lethal glare from beaming out at Cicely, Hyssop’s mother and the brownies’ eldest in Yew’s absence. With Cicely constantly criticizing Hyssop’s choice in host-family, the young brownie was not developing the _place_ she needed. 

Pepper’s lips thinned. Hyssop would Withdraw if something was not done soon. Pepper recognized the signs of a brownie on the verge. 

Worry surged. She hoped Tova succeeded in speaking with Thorin. If he did not light the candle soon, assuming kingship over the brownies, they’d lose Hyssop. That fear prompted Pepper to reach over and claim one of Hyssop’s hands, giving it a squeeze. She received a glimmer of a smile in return.

 _Perhaps Nutmeg’s idea will safeguard our young one, too._ So Pepper hoped.

“I do not see how this will aid our hosts,” Cicely said with a sniff, returning Pepper to the matter at hand. “Festivals? Holidays? What good are they against the ghostly Fiends?”

“I think the idea grand.” The second-eldest, Angelica, ruffled her shoulder-length, auburn hair, her long face animated. Wearing colorful, patchwork skirts, dozens of bead bracelets, and wooden, hoop earrings, Angelica was hands-down the most flamboyant of them. “Joy and cheer to counter the dread those things generate.” With a nudge, Angelica asked her young cousin, “What do you think, Comfrey?”

Comfrey paused over her washboard, a sudsy article of clothing dripping soap back into the tin wash pan. With her walnut hair contained in a tight braid over one shoulder, Comfrey, Pepper thought, was becoming as no-frills as the dwarves she’d selected to be her host-family – namely, the motley group of bachelors that preferred to dwell in the barracks instead of an individual home. “I like the idea.” Her pointed chin lifted. “What did you intend, Nutmeg?”

Nutmeg leaned forward, her broken beauty somehow restored in her enthusiasm. “I want to celebrate the Shire holidays.” Dark eyes dared them to argue. “Lethe, their midsummer festival, is not too far distant.”

Pepper added another scrap of fabric to the braid she was working on, orange this time, twisting it into her strand before continuing on. “Get them interested in the Shire,” Pepper said, lips curving upward. “Good idea.”

Her sister dipped her head, the smallest smile flickering across her lips. “I thought if the dwarves had reason to be curious about the Shire…” she began.

Clove jumped in with a rush, “…they might see Bilbo in a new light and stop the muttering. Dwarves are stubborn, but that might just do the trick. Wonderful,” she finished with a smile.

“I still fail to see what use celebrations will be,” Cicely maintained.

Pepper’s fingers tightened upon the braid in her hands. “Gamboling and high jinks are what kept many of us from giving in to hopelessness in Faerie,” she attempted in a level voice. “The dwarves are already a boisterous people. We need only encourage that, teach them the tools that saved many of us.”

“High jinks?” Cicely pressed one hand to her chest, but Pepper saw many of the others silently sniggering to themselves at remembered escapades. 

What _was_ Cicely’s father, a stodgy gargoyle? Pepper shook her head. A _proper_ brownie was always up for a lark. “Where do we start?” Pepper asked Nutmeg.

Long into the day, six of the seven brownies suggested and discarded ideas. With Lethe so far away, they quickly turned to old Earth holidays to fill the void. They could not wait for midsummer to implement their plans. 

By mid-afternoon, smirking among themselves as they separated, they had nailed down their first project. All Fool’s Day had never been more than that – one day of revelry – but the dwarves needn’t know that. The brownies would stretch it into a weeks-long event complete with the requisite contests, treats, costumes and tomfoolery. 

Pepper giggled as she made her way home. Her first prank had already formed in her mind. She was going to decorate her host-family’s home in powdery pinks and ruffles. After all, she owed Ríkin for stealing away some of her hair without permission, didn’t she?

OoOoOo

Tova frowned, folding her arms before her chest as she stared at Balin, the king’s chief advisor. “It is important I speak with him.”

Balin’s brow creased with concern. “Thorin won’t be back for days yet,” he told her in a kindly enough way. Other counselors milled about, addressing concerns of other dwarves within the Throne Room, but Tova had marched straight to Balin, only to discover the king had departed from Erebor to meet with the Elvenking and Lord Bard in Dale about the continuing orc harassment all three were experiencing. 

“Can I be of assistance?” Balin asked. 

Tova flicked her beard a couple times, setting the bells to chiming. Releasing her beard, she sighed, “No, it can wait. Please convey my request to our king, Balin.”

The older dwarf smiled. “I’ll be certain to do that.”

Tova left the Throne Room. The news she carried was not urgent, she didn’t think, and the king’s orders expressly forbade discussing the Helpers. To Thorin alone would she address her concerns and convey her discoveries.

OoOoOo

After four days of preparations, the brownies put their plan into action. In the dead of night, they stole through Erebor as swiftly as they could, setting all into place.

It was time for the games to begin.

OoOoOo

Kíli halted in his tracks, the door to his chambers bumping him in the back as it closed. A bucket hung suspended over his brother’s door directly across the hallway.

Who would possibly…? He jumped to the side, narrowly missing the contents spilling down from a matching pail over his head. 

Then he chortled. What he’d expected to be a cold dousing of water proved instead to be a pillow’s worth of feathers. And – he squatted to retrieve the only non-feather item from the mess – a bit of vibrantly-colored cloth with shiny beads, eye holes, and ribbons on either side. A mask?

His nose detected a whiff of cloves and a woodsy-green scent. Clove and the Helper he’d dubbed Pine. Though Pine didn’t truly describe the fragrance, he was at a loss to find a better label. 

Kíli chuckled to himself. The fear haunting his home had worried him for days, but it loosened its tight hold upon him as he considered the possibilities. Perhaps the Helpers were on to something.

Kíli twirled the mask between his hands, eyeing Fíli’s door. Impish delight filling him. Perhaps he should do some _helping_ of his own. 

“The trick to a good jest,” he murmured, suspecting they’d hear, “is to take a chance.” His lips curled in a lopsided grin as he pocketed his mask, hurriedly cleaned all evidence of his bucket and feathers from the hallway, and rushed on silent feet down the hall in search of some…additions...to add to Fíli’s bucket.

OoOoOo

Fíli’s breath froze in his lungs as ice-cold – was this _milk?_ – poured down upon him the instant he stepped outside his door. Adding insult to injury, it was followed a second later by a slew of feathers.

Familiar laughter erupted from down the hall. 

_“Kíli.”_ The chase was on.

OoOoOo

Tíra squealed with glee as flower petals showered her the instant she stepped out of the home she shared with her parents. Her sire, however, was not as thrilled. Turning at his grumpy harrumph, she found her adad batting petals from his hair, a sour expression upon his face.

Tíra’s mother took one look at her mate and broke into peals of laughter, one hand jingling the bells in her beard. “I knew you had a softer side, my lover, but I’d advise you to avoid walking into your own trap if you dislike wearing flowers,” Tova said, and Tíra giggled behind one hand as her father bristled. 

“I had naught to do with it,” he protested, slapping away the last few splotches of yellow and white in his hair. 

“Aye. Sadly, I am aware of that,” Tova said, batting falsely mournful eyes. 

“Sadly?” Dalkin halted, bushy brows lowered as he stared at Tíra’s dam. 

Tíra bent down and came back up with three other items that had been in the basket above their door. Masks? 

Before she could mention it, Tova linked her arm through her daughter’s and led them away. Over her shoulder, Tova said, “Aye. Some outsider must shower your mate with flowers,” Tova said, clucking her tongue. Out of her sire’s sight, Tíra’s mother winked to her daughter. “He must have realized the females in our household were sadly lacking in appreciation.”

Tíra’s eyes flared with laughter, but her adad huffed in ire as he hurried to catch up with them. 

“I’ll not have some stranger bestowing gifts upon my wife, Tova,” he grumbled, insult hardening his frame. “Who is it?” he continued, plainly to himself. “Who would dare?”

Tova smiled at her daughter, and Tíra smiled right back.

OoOoOo

Thekkin froze upon the threshold, Eikin bumping into his back.

“Thekkin,” Eikin grumbled.

Thekkin paid him no mind. Instead, he retreated a few steps. Aye, this was his home, right enough. So why, he wanted to ask, was it pink? 

Meanwhile, Eikin froze in the doorway. His brother craned about at the waist. “Thekkin…”

Thekkin’s lips began to curl upwards. A laugh rumbled up from his chest. “I believe, Eikin, we shall see more fireworks when our brother returns.” He chortled louder. “Aye, this will be more entertaining than the cake,” he said, rubbing hands together.

Eikin’s brows rose. He changed to iglishmêk. _*Ye believe her behind it?*_

 _*Ye doubt it?*_ Thekkin rolled his eyes. _*Of course our Pepper is behind it.*_ And ‘twas reassuring to see, he added to himself, for the lass had not been around much since her talk with Tova, and that had worried him. If the lassie turned an ankle and needed assistance, how would the brothers ever locate her?

The pink of their home proved Pepper had not left, nor was she injured in some fashion. That alone allowed him to find humor in discovering the interior of their house – all but his and Eikin’s bedchambers, he determined upon checking – painted pink as a rhodonite crystal. The fur pillows upon the furniture had been covered – he begged Mahal to not let them have been dyed – a shade lighter than the walls. Every lantern in the house now wore a pink-feathered shade, and rose petals in vases sat upon mantel, table, and hearth. 

“What do you suppose this is about?” Eikin asked, lifting the ruby red mask he’d found upon his pillow. 

Thekkin’s own blue mask was cradled in one hand. He laughed all the harder, picturing their brother’s face when Ríkin clapped eyes upon their home…and the pink and lace mask in his room. “Eikin, my lad, I’m not sure. But I’m thinking we should remain near home to see the sparks when Ríkin returns.” 

Eikin’s grin was slow but fierce. “Aye. Aye, I like that idea.”

OoOoOo

Thorin returned, tired but content with the results of his meeting with Thranduil and Bard, only to be barraged with words of events that had transpired in his absence. He listened with growing incredulity about how every dwarf in Erebor had been showered with feathers and flowers, and each dwarf had in his possession a fabric mask.

What, he growled to himself, were the Helpers _thinking?_ To risk discovery? Over such foolishness? His temper climbed higher and higher. 

Despite that, his mind did not fail to catalogue the new spark in many an eye. The muted silences that had begun to dominate were gone, replaced by curiosity and excitement. Dwarves debated in Khuzdul the meaning of the masks and their purpose. 

What _was_ the meaning? And why, when he returned to his bedchamber, were there two hats upon his bed that looked like caricatures of crowns, one dark as night with cotton touching its rim like spider’s webbing, the other a jester’s delight in a patchwork of brilliant fabrics trimmed with bells and gemstones? 

_Mahal._ Given the boost to morale, Thorin wished he could be thankful, but he was too consumed with worry. So much could go wrong with one slip on the Helpers’ part. He had to find a way to make them speak. Enough was enough.

OoOoOo

Pepper yawned as she trudged after one of the Fiends (or so the brownies had taken to calling them). She hadn’t slept for two days, but she consoled herself that she’d return to the home she shared with her dwarves as soon as she determined the Fiend’s destination.

It had occurred to her when speaking in private to Cicely that while bringing celebrations to the dwarves was useful, the brownies must know who the Fiends were specifically targeting and take steps to guard them if at all possible. 

Thus far, the Fiends had shown an interest in less than two hands of the dwarves. Thorin and his heirs, they had known to expect, but Dwalin and Balin were also threatened.

What had surprised them most, however, was that the Fiends watched Bofur closer than all the rest. It was baffling. While the other dwarves were attacked with terror and hopelessness, Bofur the creatures never made a move to harm. Instead, it seemed they took pains not to alert him to their presence.

 _They want him alive._ That, she and Cicely had agreed upon. The question was why. And what should they do about it?


	6. Damage Control

### Chapter 6

_Mahal._ Thorin suppressed the urge to draw a hand down his face as Tova departed. 

So. His gaze touched upon the candle upon his desk. 

Such a risk, Tova and her son had taken. They had little inkling what they might have dragged down upon all their heads had their interactions with the brownie, Pepper, been witness by the wrong eyes, and Thorin dared not tell them. Knowledge that the Nazgûl stalked these Halls could well end in panic, and should the Nazgûl determine the dwarves knew of their presence, they might well correctly conclude the dwarves’ ignorance of certain matters a charade.

Which, in fact, it was. At present, the wraiths assumed only Daphne knew where the One Ring might be found and searched diligently for some way to locate her. Should they discover Thorin could point them in the right direction – or Bofur, Bifur, Gloin, and Bombur – life would become more of an adventure than even Thorin wished to contemplate. 

No, his dwarves could not know what the Terrors were. And lighting the candle was a risk he, too, would have to take. 

Thorin set out a plate at the edge of his desk, adding food from the platter Bombur had delivered to him earlier. It was a simple matter to light a candle and set it beside the plate. Then sitting to one side of the desk upon a chair, he feigned an indifference he did not feel and drew a piece of parchment to him, forcing his eyes upon the figures Lord Bard had sent to him. The surviving farming communities needed guarding. Both Erebor and Dale depended on what they would generate this spring and fall – they could not rely upon Thranduil’s elves to feed them indefinitely. The elves’ stored surplus would not last forever.

Time ticked by, punctuated by the steady _tic-toc_ of the clock Nyrar had constructed for him shortly after he and his cousin had settled in the mountain. A pendulum swung beneath its body, childlike portrayals of Fíli and Kíli tussling upon the weight. Each dwarfling gained the upper hand in turn with the pendulum’s motions. How the dwarf had managed such accuracy was a matter of wonder, for the depiction truly looked like his trouble-making nephews in their younger years. 

He finished reading Bard’s report and swiveled in his seat to scratch out his own notations to share with Dwalin in the morning. The men could not defend their farming communities alone. He’d send a small contingent to each to support the men.

The evening passed in silence. At last, Thorin blew out the candle, set his orders aside, and left his study in search of his nephews. He schooled his frustration from his face, but perhaps it was time to drag Dwalin onto the training ground. Thorin had a veritable mountain of aggravation to work off.

OoOoOo

“You dwarves truly are a fascinating people.”

At the strange, female voice, Thorin bolted upright, knife in hand and body coiled for action. A weight dipped the foot of the bed minutely, but his eyes failed to locate any visible source for the disturbance. 

_So,_ he thought, returning the blade to its sheath and sliding from beneath the sheets. One of Erebor’s brownies finally deigned to answer his call.

“And handsome, too,” she proclaimed with an exaggerated sigh, her voice rich with warmth and humor. He bristled, ready to rebuke her audacity when her tone changed to one more respectful. “My apologies for interrupting your sleep, Thorin, but the Fiends watch you almost constantly. I dared not reveal myself until we knew they had departed the area.”

Thorin scowled, snatching up a robe, unwilling to speak to the creature in naught but his sleep braies. Then her words penetrated, and he whipped back around, tying the belt about his waist with jerky, absent movements. “You can see them?”

“Yes.” As his eyes slid towards his door, she said, “Cicely guards the outer chamber. Should they return, she will give us warning. We have found the Fiends can walk through walls, but they prefer not to exert themselves unless necessary. We suspect doors are easier to pass through, though we could be wrong on that point.”

They could see them. The fact sank home, bringing with it exquisite relief. _Mahal._ This was a boon he’d not dared to hope for. “Present yourself,” he commanded in a low voice.

A small female popped into view, one no more than a hand taller than Bilbo with a delicate bone structure and elongated, pointed ears. She sat cross-legged upon his bed, patchwork skirts forming a colorful puddle around her. One elbow rested upon her knee, and her chin was propped up on the hand. A lively grin dominated her long face, and a shaggy mop of auburn brushed her shoulders with every turn of her head. 

Brown eyes twinkled up at him. “Angelica, at your service.” Her chin abandoned its place and she straightened and leaned forward. “That is the proper way to introduce oneself, yes?”

The incongruous sight of her small feet clad in diamond-patterned stockings in alternating orange and pink delayed his answer for a split-second. That alone must have been why he demanded, “Where are your males?” 

_Mahal,_ where were their males? Was he addled? Little did it matter. But Thorin was ill used to females invading his bedchamber. Not since Dís and her infernal pranks had his privacy been so disturbed, and that had been near a century ago.

“Don’t have any,” she said with a little twirl as she leaped from the bed. 

The words were so casually stated, and her action so flamboyant, that at first he failed to catch the substance. When he did, he frowned. “They did not travel to Middle Earth?” What kind of cowards allowed their womenfolk to venture into the unknown alone?

As she hummed lowly in her throat, two wooden rods appeared in her hands along with yarn he recognized from the supply sent by Dale’s herdsman. Swaying upon her feet in time to her humming, she began to crochet. “No, there aren’t any,” she said as if it was the most reasonable thing in the word. “Male brownies? Don’t be silly.” The outrageous female reached over and patted him on the cheek. As if he was a dwarfling.

A tic tugged at Thorin’s right eye while he struggled to contain his temper. Did she take him for a fool? No males? _Absurd._ His anger found an outlet. “You steal from us?” he asked in a low, menacing voice.

“Steal?” The female looked utterly baffled, but then she followed the heavy gaze he bestowed upon the yarn in her hands. Lifting her needles in demonstrations, she said, “This is for Gróa, wife of Ganar.” Angelica smiled at him, eyes dancing. “Were you aware she is pregnant?”

Preg—? He folded arms before his chest. “No, I was not.”

“Just think, the first dwarf born within Erebor,” she chatted away happily. “A cause for celebration.”

How, Thorin wondered, had he lost control of this conversation? He was not certain what it was he expected, but it was not this rambling. With an inner grumble, he said, “Mistress Angelica.”

She stepped closer to him, concern furrowing her brow. “Just Angelica, please.”

His temper spiked at the interruption. “You correct me?”

Now, it was confusion he saw. With marked care, she said, “Thorin… It is not my intention to cause offense. Among my people, the use of such titles when speaking directly to a person is a sign of distrust and distance. I spoke as I did not to correct or instruct, but as courtesy. You hold our loyalty and our respect. We count you _our_ ruler.”

That…was not what he’d expected, either. Thorin stared into the brownie’s eyes, as if by dint of will he could peel back the layers to see the mind behind them and gain understanding. Not for the first time, he wished it was possible that Aleks had remained with them. Perhaps he’d have insight into these peculiar brownies. 

That they were ruled by formalities was evident. The lighting of the candle, the saucer Tova had mentioned, and now this, the lack of formality to them not indicating a lack of respect, but the opposite. “Why?” he asked after a long pause. 

“Why?” she repeated, thin brows meeting over her nose.

“Why offer me your loyalty?” he clarified. “Why any of what you have done? You could have left Erebor,” he said, walking to the side table and pouring himself a glass of water. “Middle Earth is not Faerie. There are no echnari to play with your minds. Why do you stay?”

She continued to crochet, eyes never dipping to the work of her hands. A small smile lifted her lips. “It is not our way,” she informed him with a half-shrug. “A brownie is never content without a host-family to serve.”

He recalled the term from his exchange with Tova. Thorin sipped his beverage, studying the female. They intended to stay. He was not certain if he should order them away to keep them from the Nazgûl, or shut them up within the mountain to preserve them from others who might prey upon such generosity. 

Ori had confirmed Daphne’s account of the fallen kings who became the Ringwraiths. Men, it seemed, had little defense against Sauron’s machinations. The thought of such a people at the Dark Lord’s mercies was enough to sour all but the most hardened of hearts.

So. A resolution must be reached. For them. For his dwarves.

Long into the night, he spoke with the brownie, finding her gratifyingly sobered when he outlined the peril in which the brownies found themselves. He told her of the Dark Lord and his rise to the south in the land of Mordor. He told her about Sauron’s efforts to seek Daphne and the information of the future she had carried. He explained Sauron’s ability to corrupt even the noblest of men, and the likelihood he’d be eager to get his hands upon her people. 

After much consideration, hearing her thoughts on the matter, Thorin made up his mind. He told her what he wanted done. 

Angelica rose from the chair she’d claimed at his invitation and inclined her head. “It will be as you say. I believe you are wrong to forbid the celebrations and festivals we planned, Thorin. I fear it will harm your people more than you know.” 

He reacted only with a tic of one brow, but she lifted one slender hand. “You are our king, Thorin.” A brief smile. “I may disagree, but I assure you, we will obey.” Brown eyes held his, eyes full of gravity. “We have lived in silence before. We can do so again.”

OoOoOo

Pepper frowned at the shawl she was repairing for Tíra, fingers white about the fabric. The fear of an incredible loss blurred her vision. Would Ríkin wait? Could he, when the two of them had not had opportunity to speak? Two brief encounters seemed to her a very flimsy foundation upon which to trust.

Clove’s hand touched her arm, and Pepper read the empathy in her sister’s face. Shame touched her. Pepper at least had hope. Clove had none, for she’d had no chance to speak with Fíli at all. 

_And now…this._ Pepper’s lips twisted. Thorin had ordered the brownies silent and invisible until the Nazgûl departed, an event he expected would take four years at best. They were forbidden to utter a single word, not even to each other without outrageous precautions. They could not uncloak, and more depressing to Pepper, they were to no longer announce their presences using their preferred fragrances. 

To all appearances, it would seem the dwarves’ Helpers had ceased to be. What would Ríkin think? Or Tova? For Thorin had all but gagged the brownies, disallowing her to even explain…

“Nothing?” Nutmeg asked quietly as Angelica finished conveying Thorin’s decree. “No decorations at all?” Pepper’s sister looked resigned, an expression she suspected adorned her face, too. 

“I pointed out that the wraiths must have seen the masks. To cancel All Fools could very well cause as much suspicion as not.” Angelica twitched her colorful skirts, turning in a circle to bring each brownie into view in turn. “He will hold the masquerade we planned and bestow the two awards. But on the rest, he is determined.” 

“Wise, the king,” Cicely decreed, bobbing her head. “It is not much to ask. After all, we’ve lived in such a fashion already.” 

Was Cicely blind that she could not see the way Hyssop crumpled at this decree? She isn’t going to make it. Pepper wished to do nothing so much as charge into Thorin’s quarters and flay him with her tongue, but she reined in the impulse. He was the king. 

It was only later, when Pepper lingered to speak to their second eldest, that Angelica told her, “It will not work.”

Pepper returned Tíra’s shawl into her work smock, mentally girding herself for what lay ahead. “What will not work?”

“Thorin’s plan.” A glimmer of impish humor filled Angelica’s eyes. “Quite the stubborn dwarf, but even he will see reason. Mark my words. The dwarves need us and our cheer.” Angelica fingered a lock of auburn hair from her face. “I look forward to seeing him squirm when the truth finally slaps him in the face and he’s forced to recant this foolishness.”

“Angelica,” Pepper said, laughing despite herself as she berated her elder. Then more somberly, “Hyssop.”

Angelica patted her cheek. “Our Hyssop is stronger than she believes. She will endure.” She shook herself, a hum claiming her as she spun upon a heel. “That king. Such a handsome dwarf,” Angelica tossed over her shoulder as she breezed from the house. “A shame he’s as much a stick in the mud as Cicely.”

OoOoOo

And so it was the dwarves celebrated a much altered All Fools’ Day. Kíli was crowned King of Mischief for his pranks, which surprised no one, and Bifur won the title of Counterfeit King for his excellent costume at the masquerade. Not even his own cousins recognized him.

Clove watched it all, happy for the dwarves’ sake that the brownies had their way in this at least. 

But it was a hard time, too. She watched as Pepper’s shoulders bowed lower with each passing day. Her Ríkin had returned, but in accordance with Thorin’s decree, Pepper’s things and presence seemed to have vanished from his household. Clove knew her sister followed him, witnessing the way he sniffed the air as he went about his business. And she knew her sister’s heart broke as at last, resignation replaced the anger and confusion that had ruled him for weeks.

OoOoOo

At first, Ríkin scarce believed his lassie had left. Neither Tova nor his brothers could offer an explanation. Quite the opposite, in fact, as his dam recounted her meeting with Ríkin’s brownie. Yet, the fact remained. Her things were gone. Her scent no longer filled his home with its spicy warmth. When he lit the candle as her customs dictated, she never came.

He stared at the pink upon his walls, the mask left by his bedside, and could not fathom what had gone wrong. ‘twas as if she’d been erased, leaving behind only reminders, and that infuriated him all the more. He often stared at the two red hairs he’d filched from her head, throat tight. They’d not had many conversations, his lassie and himself, but he’d settled his affections upon her nonetheless. For a dwarf, that happened once in his lifetime. 

Anger raged within his breast, yet deep inside, he wished only to know for certain if Pepper was safe. That her things had vanished said, aye, she’d left of her own accord, but what if there was more to the matter than he knew? Well did he remember her words that he and his brothers were _her_ family.

Naught made sense. Day by day, he prowled Erebor’s byways, senses alert for any whiff of her. And night after night, Ríkin tossed upon his bed...and feared.

OoOoOo

Pepper inched closer to the bed after Ríkin had finally fallen asleep. Anger burned through her, and regret. She’d obey Thorin – the brownies owed the king a debt that could never be repaid – but this separation tore at her heart. Tears dotted her lashes, and her fingers trembled as they reached out, brushing across one braid in his beard.

She could stand it no more. Pepper slipped onto the bed and curled up bare inches from her dwarf, head resting upon her arm and gaze fixed upon him. “I’m here,” she mouthed, tears leaking down her cheek. Then whispered, tremulous words escaped her, “Don’t give up on me. Please, Ríkin. Be stubborn, and don’t give up.”

OoOoOo

Tova was neither young nor a fool. She added up the sequence of events, and a fury rarely seen kindled. What had she done, sharing about their Pepper to the king? What had the _king_ done with her knowledge?

She retreated to her preferred forge, venting her spleen through single-minded work. Tova pumped the bellows before thrusting the crude lance she worked upon into the hot fire. Her Ríkin was hurting. Aye, he was. And with each sighting of his bewildered, pained face, her anger climbed higher. ‘twas unsafe for her to near the Throne Room, and that was a fact. 

Yanking the lance from the fire, she hammered it with enough force to destroy her project. With a roar of rage, she hurled the distorted length away from her with all her strength, the misbegotten thing banging against a wall and clattering to the stone floor. Her chest heaved with the force of her breaths.

That was when Dalkin’s arms materialized around her. “My jewel,” he murmured in her ear, arms tight. Tova leaned back into him, relishing his strength. “Speak with me, my lover,” he urged.

She hugged his arms to her, blinking away the sting of tears. _*Our son has been harmed,*_ she told him. _*And I may have caused it to happen.*_

OoOoOo

Not a day passed in which one of his dwarves did not approach Thorin or one of his advisers in search of answers about their missing “Helpers.” The mountain was full of speculation, such that Thorin longed to tear at his hair. What use was hiding the brownies away if his dwarves grew all the more bold in their demands that he do something to locate them? By Durin. Did they not understand…?

No, he realized. They didn’t. They pestered him, at first openly, and then using more “discrete” means – though a dwarfish concept of discrete was anything but. Comments flowed in iglishmêk about how the public areas had looked so much the cleaner back when their Helpers had aided them. Or how fine was the embroidery upon many pillows, as if their dwarven craftsmen were unable to match the work. 

Thorin did not know whether to snarl as his temper worsened with each comment or to beat his head upon a wall. 

The worst offenders by far were his own kinsmen. Fíli grumbled about the lack of the clove scent he’d grown fond of, his pale eyes hard. That Fíli full well knew Thorin’s reasoning did not alter the fact that his heir disagreed with his decision. 

_So long as it keeps our people safe, I care not._ So Thorin repeated to himself on a daily basis. 

Kíli, however, was the more upset of the two. And after months of heated words in Khuzdul and iglishmêk, it grated in Thorin’s craw that his own sister-son would give him the silent treatment. Oh, he full well recognized the irony that he was receiving what he’d forced upon the brownies. A part of him maintained his sister-son needed maturing, but Thorin missed Kíli’s simple devotion daily. 

_Mahal._ Three and a half years to go.


	7. The Best Laid Plans

### Chapter 7

_3 July TA 2942_

Ríkin painted over the pink walls, stony of face. It felt as if with each pass of the brush, a bit of his lassie was eradicated with it, a fact he’d both dreaded and counted upon. 

_By Durin, my Pepper, why did you go?_ She’d painted their home the outlandish color, left him a wee mask of pink with feathers and lace – a joke, he’d been certain – and then…nothing. She was gone as suddenly as she’d appeared in his life, and he could not determine what had gone wrong.

He missed her. Missed the scent that followed her about, the treats she left for them, and the way she saw to their needs. But more than that, he missed the laughter that should have rung through the house and the fiery tussles they surely would have had. 

The reminders had to go, for with each sighting, his loss pained him anew. He’d not be forgetting her. ‘twas not a dwarf’s way. But he could not bear to look upon the walls any longer. 

Frustration surged. ‘twas always so. With each thought of her, first came the grief, then the outrage. 

Eikin picked up a paintbrush and joined him without word, his jaw set. His silent support could not ease Ríkin’s pain, but it heartened him, aye it did. For his brothers would never turn from him. 

_Adâd was right,_ Ríkin concluded with bitterness. _Never trust an outsider._ How often had his sire warned them? Elves, men, it made no difference. Only dwarves understood honor. 

Thekkin mumbled and retreated into his room instead of aiding them to return their home to its previous state. The door to his bedchamber shook with the force of his anger. 

_How could you do this to us, lassie?_ That he was not the only dwarf mourning a brownie only made the matter worse. The lot of them had defected without explanation or cause. 

Aye, his sire had the right of it. Never trust an outsider.

OoOoOo

Fíli unbuckled his sword belt and set it upon his trunk. Sitting upon the foot of his bed, he tugged off boots, tired and irritated with life. He understood his uncle’s reasoning, but since Thorin refused to share details with Kíli, Fíli found himself in the middle of the silent war between two mithril-headed family members, trying to keep the peace but tempted to tell each just where in Durin’s name they could take their complaints.

 _Not Uncle’s fault._

Oh, his uncle had issued the decree causing many of the problems, true enough. Thorin simply couldn’t _see._ He’d never needed jocularity and fun to see him through, though he did partake in merriment from time to time. 

_Not nearly often enough._

Nor did Thorin see that the worry plaguing his dwarves only aided the Nazgûl to dishearten their people. They missed their “Helpers” with their little acts of kindness. Fíli echoed that sentiment, for he missed the scent of clove that had lingered around the one who’d…

_Mahal._ He dashed the thought. Even should the brownie remain, he’d never know it. Thorin had forbidden the scents they used to announce themselves on top of everything else. His lips flattened sourly. 

_Speak of Faerie and the Nazgûl to no one,_ Radagast had charged him. Fíli often wondered if Radagast had any inkling about the brownies who would turn the wizard’s plans upside down. It seemed to him that wizardly foresight was less than perfect.

Snatching a leather-bound book Ori had located for him from the library, Fíli made his way to the bench situated before his fireplace and dropped down with a sigh. He stiffened instantly. Someone had seated herself here before him. Someone invisible who’d not vacated her seat fast enough. 

Elation filled him. _Don’t leave,_ he willed. Mahal, had the brownie any idea what a relief it was to know for a fact they had not departed? To know they remained safe within Erebor? He’d had nightmares of them in the wilds, hunted and desperate.

He felt her attempt to tug the fabric of her skirts from beneath his leg, but Fíli pressed down all the harder, not about to let this opportunity pass. She could not extricate herself without betraying her presence, and that she was forbidden to do.

Was it his brownie? 

Flipping open the book, he scanned the contents until he found a subject that might interest his unwilling guest. Then turning to the proper page, Fíli began to read aloud. Time passed as the fire crackled within the hearth. The brownie stopped fighting, and Fíli swore he felt her shift closer. 

Warmth. Companionship. Mahal, but the quiet time became infinitely precious to Fíli. Though he could not see the female beside him and had heard her voice but once, she drew him. Was it the gentleness of her remembered voice? Or an instinctive knowledge of kinship that defied explanation? 

He little cared, only relishing this time. It was his brownie, the lass who’d dared to place herself between Fíli and a Ringwraith to protect him. He was certain. And when she leaned into his side, relaxing against him, he could have crowed. 

His uncle would doubtless disapprove should Fíli ever mention this event to him, but Fíli knew he’d never speak a word of it, not even to Kíli. Should a wraith be about, there was nothing here to betray her presence. On one point alone did Fíli agree with his uncle: he would see the brownies hidden from them.

The brownie’s head came to rest upon his upper arm. Fíli yearned to lean his head atop hers, but mindful of her safety, he cleared his throat and resumed reading. 

He knew he’d read this way each night from now on in the hopes she’d join him.

OoOoOo

_11 August TA 2942_

Pepper’s hands contorted about her skirts. The bright smile she’d worn all morning in anticipation of Princess Dís’s arrival wilted. Cheerful dwarfish greetings sounded all around her, a happy thunder, but Pepper’s gaze remained locked in dismay upon a brunette dwarrowmaid who in turn eyed _her_ Ríkin with what Pepper could only label as speculation and interest. 

Too much interest. With arms crossed before her chest, Pepper glowered.

“You look like your Ríkin at his worst,” Nutmeg teased in a whisper, bumping Pepper’s shoulder with her own. “Pepper? What’s…? Oh.”

Oh, indeed. Pepper’s gaze followed the maid as she greeted the royals, but then the maid’s wandering steps carried her ever closer to Pepper’s dwarf. 

No. She wouldn’t stand for it. She had held her tongue as commanded while her Ríkin had suffered from her “disappearance”, reminding herself of Thorin’s decree and the reasoning behind it. She’d sobbed upon her sisters’ shoulders when his bafflement and hurt morphed into a stony-faced hardness. And for months, Pepper had trailed her dwarf everywhere, a pale ghost, constantly schooling her fingers away when they reached for him. Silent. Obedient.

But this? This, she could not do. She couldn’t watch as another female pursued him…and perhaps won him. Pepper had shared few words with her Ríkin, a fact she’d regretted each day of their separation. If only she’d abandoned Etiquette earlier. Spoken with her Ríkin more. Perhaps then she’d have more confidence in their bond in light of this development. 

But she hadn’t. And she didn’t. Her eyes smarted with unshed tears. Pepper blinked them away, her throat tight. _Not my Ríkin._ She’d lost too much in Faerie. She wouldn’t lose him. Not like this.

Pepper was done. She’d obey Thorin to the letter, but she’d had much time to consider the matter. His decree didn’t cover everything, and it was high time she started taking advantage of that. 

A tiny spurt of guilt reminded her that she knew full well the king’s intent. What she considered was nothing more than the splitting of hairs, but Pepper silenced that inner voice like a pesky mosquito, mentally swatting it from existence. She would not let Ríkin go without a fight. 

Her eyes narrowed upon the other female, and her jaw clenched. 

“Pepper, whatever it is you’re thinking, remember our king’s command,” Nutmeg warned, taking her elbow in a hard grip. 

“Me?” Pepper flashed her sister a false smile. 

_“Pepper.”_

Salt, Pepper decided. She was going to need copious amounts of salt.

OoOoOo

_13 August TA 2942_

Ríkin shook his head in aggravation as he stomped through the front door, slamming it shut in his wake. 

“Eh?” Thekkin’s head reluctantly rose from the piles of parchments before him on the table. He had quill in one hand and a distracted look in his eye that told Ríkin his entrance had interrupted some deep line of thought. 

“Something amiss?” Eikin asked, emerging from the kitchen with towel over one shoulder and hands dusted with flour. ‘twas an instant reminder of Pepper’s absence. Before her disappearance, their meals would be waiting for them when they returned home for the evening. Now, they made due with Eikin’s less-honed culinary skills.

“Dwarrowmaids,” Ríkin growled, throwing his halberd atop the weapons chest with no grace. Shucking his coat and gloves, he tossed them after it. 

‘twas beyond the pale. The female had introduced herself properly enough, but then she’d taken to following him about, batting eyelashes and gifting him with sultry smiles. Aye, sultry! Had she no shame? That she had no knowledge of his Pepper mattered not at all. His temper was pricked at the intrusion, and each display of interest served only to rile him further. 

Ale. That was what he needed. Without another word, he stomped past Eikin into the kitchens.

OoOoOo

Thekkin smacked his youngest brother as Ríkin stalked off into the kitchen, likely in search of something to drink. “Whatever it is ye think to say, keep it locked behind your teeth,” he muttered.

Eikin frowned. “I was only going to suggest he give the lass a chance.”

“Stina?” Thekkin’s bushy brows shot upwards towards his hairline. “Are ye daft? Pepper is Ríkin’s choice. There will not be another,” Thekkin said, holding his brother’s gaze. 

As he’d expected, Eikin’s eyes flared and his jaw dangled. Eikin’s head craned towards the other room, and his voice lowered. “I knew he was fond of our brownie but...”

“Aye, well now you know.” Both went silent as Ríkin pounded his way through the main room to his bedchamber, his face a thundercloud. 

As the door slammed behind their middle brother’s back, Eikin asked softly, “Do ye think she’ll ever return?”

Thekkin sighed gustily, setting his quill aside. With bleakness, he offered truth. “I wish I knew, Eikin. Mahal be my witness, I wish I knew.”

OoOoOo

Give the dwarf maiden a chance?

Pepper barely refrained from smacking Eikin herself. Fuming, she stole into the kitchen, located the bowl Eikin favored – he was sure to eat the stew steaming within in – and added a full measure of salt to it, stirring to ensure he wouldn’t detect her addition until it reached his tongue.

_Give the maiden a chance._ Pepper sniffed. One more comment like that, and she’d ensure a palatable meal never reached his lips again.

Spinning around, she flounced from the room

OoOoOo

Ríkin simmered at words not meant for his ears. Replace Pepper? With Stina? The mere notion had him seeing red. ‘twas the truth, he took himself off to his chambers to prevent his fist from making happy with his brother’s jaw.

Tossing back a big gulp of his ale, he muttered, “Constantly following me about, she is. Does the female have naught else to do?” Ever was his Pepper industriously at work upon some task or another. 

_Lazy,_ he labeled the other maid, uncaring if he was being unfair. 

Turning towards the bedside table to set down his stein, Ríkin froze. Every muscle in his body seized as his hale eye locked upon something he’d not thought to be seeing again. A treat had been left upon the small table…along with the outrageous pink mask he’d buried in the darkest recesses of his trunk a month past. 

At first, shock kept him rooted, but it passed quickly. He prowled through the room, nostrils flared and his frame as rigid as if he marched onto a battlefield. 

_No cinnamon._ He didn’t doubt but that this was his Pepper’s doing, but if she’d returned, why only this wee sign? Did he not deserve an explanation for her absence? His teeth ground together. Why now? Why…?

_Jealousy._ It struck him like an anvil. Mahal. How could he have forgotten how jealous she’d been of Tíra? As jealous as any dwarf who’d settled her affections. 

His lips curled in the barest of smiles. _Yer here, lassie, aren’t ye now?_ Relief poured through him. She’d declared them family, and he’d often wondered these long months how she could leave them if that were so. The answer, he now suspected, was that she hadn’t.

Nay. His chin dipped. She’d been here all the while, watching as he and his brothers mourned her loss. His Pepper _hid_ from them. His chest burned as a formidable anger ignited. His hands fisted. 

Why leave a gift if she was yet bent upon hiding? For if she was done, her spicy scent would warm the room. She’d be _here,_ wouldn’t she now, speaking with him. Explaining. 

His finger brushed across the surface of the dainty she’d left him. _Still in Erebor,_ he concluded, the idea settling within his bones. _Like as not, all of the brownies are._ They were safe. _She_ was safe, and she was not gone for good. 

Yet she hid from him. It stuck in his craw, it did. 

Ríkin’s eyes narrowed. Determination once more fueled him. _Ye tipped yer hand, lassie._ If she remained but wore no scent, it would take longer, but he’d find her. Popping the treat into his mouth, he scanned the room. Was she here? 

Ríkin vowed anew not to rest until he had his answers. And his lassie back in his arms where she belonged.

OoOoOo

Angelica walked the halls as she’d taken to doing nightly. She passed a Ringwraith, her lip curling at the despicable creature. That it was corrupt to its core, that it had once been a noble king of men, both she’d heard from Thorin.

 _Vile creature._ It had forsaken good for its own, twisted desires. 

The wraiths’ attacks had waned, but she couldn’t help but suspect the creatures moved about with purpose. Thorin had refused her request to keep watch on them at the same time he’d ordered the brownies into hiding, fearful of a mistake on the brownies’ part. That, too, she counted a gross mistake. 

The hallways were too silent. Erebor was growing starved for joy. A hint of resignation and grim determination scented the air even with the infusion of joy the newcomers had brought. 

_It won’t be too much longer,_ she told herself. The brownies had best prepare. When Thorin finally repented of this foolishness, they must be ready.

OoOoOo

Eikin spat his meal back into the bowl with a gasp, snatching up his tankard and upending it. Like, Thekkin, Ríkin paused mid-chew at the peculiar sight.

“Problem, lad?” Thekkin asked. His spoon dipped into his bowl for a second helping. 

Ríkin jackknifed from his relaxed position in his own chair upon detecting a wee snicker. _Pepper._ Aye, she was here, right enough, and remembering Eikin’s comment of before, Ríkin suspected he knew exactly what had befallen his brother. 

“Ye should be careful of the things ye say in private,” he said blandly, hefting his own tankard for a sip. 

“Eh?” Thekkin’s brows lifted.

With satisfaction, feeling Eikin’s blue gaze searing him with intensity, he signed, _*It seems we’ve been misled. My brownie hides, but she’d here.*_

Eikin’s jaw near hit the table. 

The three brothers looked to each other. Jaws firmed in mulish determination. Aye, the lassie’s days of hiding were numbered.


	8. Aha!

### Chapter 8

Clove stole up behind her sister in the bustling, indoor marketplace. Pepper had been acting most suspiciously since Dís’s arrival, and while Clove sympathized about Stina, she feared Pepper’s jealously might goad her sister into doing something rash. 

“What are you doing?” Clove asked.

Pepper didn’t _quite_ squeal. Her hands darted behind her back as she pivoted around with an innocent expression plastered upon her freckled face. 

Clove wasn’t fooled. Searching beyond her sister, she spotted the dwarf maid in question. The female had begun to pursue Ríkin with enough fervor to set every tongue in Erebor to wagging, so Clove was not surprised to see Pepper’s gray-haired dwarf with his dam a few booths over. Stina had her sights set upon intercepting pair, that was plain. 

_Ready to ingratiate herself with his mother,_ Clove deduced. A fact Tova seemed eminently aware of, for the dwarrowdam’s blue eyes turned brittle when they touched upon the dwarf maid. 

“Pepper.” Clove returned to her sister. 

Before she could continue, the keg Pepper had been fiddling with emitted a loud, popping sound. Foaming liquid shot from a hole in its side, spraying the dwarf maiden full in the face. 

In an instant, Stina was drenched in ale. The merchant squawked, Stina yowled, and heat stole into Pepper’s cheeks. Her sister’s guilty expression might have earned her more latitude in Clove’s sight if it weren’t for the smug satisfaction Pepper struggled to bury. 

Ríkin, Clove saw, made no move to rush to the rescue when Stina fled from the market, plainly mortified. No, _he_ was busy carefully sweeping the area with narrowed eyes. 

_By the All-Father. He knows Pepper’s still here!_

What had her sister been up to? Clove’s lips compressed into a flat line. Rounding upon her sister, Clove growled, “Pepper!” She dragged her sibling from the scene by an elbow. “You ruined her dress.”

“Better than her face,” her sister said lightly.

Clove stopped in her tracks. “Pepper.”

A sniff, and her sister spun to face her. With an accusatory finger, Pepper said, “You’d have done the same if it was Fíli she was after.” Before Clove could argue the point, Pepper modified, “Alright, maybe you wouldn’t. But you’d have wanted to.”

_True enough._ Clove sighed. “Tell me you’re finished.”

Pepper beamed at her. “By all rights, she should run from him from now on,” her sister proudly declared. “I’d pretty much had her convinced he’s cursed. This should clinch it.”

“What have you been _doing?”_

Pepper wriggled some fingers. “Nothing dangerous,” she said defensively. Then a wicked grin. “But the poor dear tripped whenever she saw him, and her belt kept falling around her ankles.” Pepper clucked her tongue. “Strange how accident prone she’s become, and only when he’s near.” 

Despite herself, a giggle escaped Clove beyond her control, the sound muffled by her hand. “Pepper, you know Thorin’s decree.”

Bleak brown eyes met her own. “I can’t lose him, Clove.”

And that, Clove understood all too well. Her arms wrapped around her sister from behind, and her chin settled upon Pepper’s shoulder. 

Clove’s thoughts turned to Fíli, and a gaping emptiness filled her. How she yearned for some crumb of conversation. If Thorin didn’t relent soon, maybe she and Pepper should give him a taste of what Stina had just endured. 

Her lips curved upwards at the thought.

OoOoOo

_18 September 2049_

Ríkin tested the air without betraying himself. _Aye,_ he decided. It had taken patience and perseverance – the latter a dwarf trait, true enough, but the former…nay, not so much – but he’d finally identified his Pepper’s scent _without_ the cinnamon she had once worn. She stayed close, a fact that pleased him even as he tired of her infernal elusiveness. 

_Speak to me, Pepper. Tell me what keeps you hidden so._ Words he did not speak. He had another plan to root out his lassie, and he’d not tip his hand.

OoOoOo

_1 October TA 2942_

Pepper sighed. 

Mayday had come and gone. Lethe. Lammas and Michaelmas. With her sister brownies, Pepper had celebrated each, donning gay apparel, dancing and feasting. With every holiday, she hoped Thorin would change his mind, and she knew she was not the only one to prepare festive decorations for her host-family in case that happened. 

May baskets ended up cached away, unused. Garlands for Lethe, never seen. And the Lamb’s Wool, a traditional Lammas spicy cider with bits of floating apple, never reached Ríkin, Thekkin, and Eikin. She’d imbibed of the cider with her fellows, feeding the ravens outside Erebor the requisite stale bread while the sun beamed down from above. 

With determination, she’d enjoyed the holidays with the other brownies, Michaelmas being the most recent with its traditional goose and candied ginger. As in Faerie, she grabbed hold of every cause for joy with both hands, but she ached to be _seen._ She wanted Ríkin’s eyes upon her, if only just once. 

Her dwarf, she was pleased to find, never once doubted that she remained near after her one overt act of disobedience. Always trying to concoct a new scheme to pin her down, that one, and she was absurdly pleased and flattered at his determination. 

Even if it meant having to tread carefully for fear he’d succeed. Her dwarf was riled, and that was perhaps an understatement. He’d never hurt her, but Pepper suspected he was going to blister her ears with his complaints the instant he got his hands on her.

Why must Thorin be so stubborn? Why could he not allow the brownies to _explain?_ The king, she was coming to realize, had trust issues. He loudly proclaimed dwarves honorable and strong, but he never shared— 

A thought stopped her. Could that be it? Could it be that Thorin believed he must carry the weight of the kingdom on his own shoulders? For even with his sister, Dís’s, arrival, he vocalized none of the matters burdening him. It was not good to bear burdens like that, she thought. She wanted better for her king. 

Pepper sipped the mug of spiced mead she’d whipped up months before, her toes curling in pleasure. She’d been playing with a recipe she had from her mother, adding a pinch more of this and a bit less of that. The result suited her tastes perfectly, granting her a thrill of satisfaction. 

A fitting beverage, indeed, for the upcoming All Hallow’s Eve celebration the brownies intended next. Perhaps Thorin would relent before this next holiday? 

A mischievous smile crossed her lips, for Angelica had tales from the humans of Earth Realm about their “Halloween”. The brownies had considered combining the two. What fun it would be!

If Thorin relented. 

Pepper sipped her beverage. Her loneliness pressed in more intensely this night. It was beyond the pale, how much she missed Ríkin when she followed him about most of the day. If her dwarf thought Stina had hounded his steps, maybe it was better he didn’t know about Pepper’s obsession, for it surpassed Stina’s by leaps and bounds. 

That night, Ríkin was outside the mountain on the king’s business for the first time since that fateful night of the cake fight. An impulse struck, and missing him as she did, Pepper was unable to resist the temptation. After gathering a blanket from the brothers’ storage alcove, she ventured into Ríkin’s bedchamber, plunked her mug down upon the side table, and jumped onto the bed. 

Pepper buried her head in his pillow and inhaled. Truly, she hadn’t slept well a single night since she’d been forced to remove her pallet beneath his bed. The straw- and cotton-filled mattress in the room she shared with her sisters was safe enough, but her body refused to sleep peacefully when her big, strong dwarf was so far away. She’d resorted to filching used jerkins from Ríkin’s laundry pile and replacing them periodically. Only his scent allowed her to drift off at all. 

_Magic,_ she decided drowsily. Her dwarf was magic. Breathing in his scent, her muscles melted. With a sigh, she let sleep claim her.

OoOoOo

Clove stole into the heir’s room as she had every night since the first he’d read to her. Though she listed for herself daily all the reasons why she should cease these visits, her heart refused to heed wisdom. Night after night, she made her way into Fíli’s room and seated herself on the bench.

And night after night, he joined her. She never spoke, and he never required it of her.

Clove assumed her seat, fidgeting with her skirts. _Place_ sang its sweet song from all around, for she’d tended his room frequently before Thorin’s decree and had not stopped after. She took all care to never disturb anything in a noticeable way, but she refused to leave Fíli untended. He was Erebor’s crown prince, and beyond that a noble and giving soul. His generosity to his brother, uncle, and friends gave heart to all. 

The smile that danced upon Fíli’s lips as he closed the bedroom door put butterflies into her belly. As was his well-established habit, he collected a worn, leather-bound book, seated himself, and flipped open the tome. She edged closer until their bodies touched from shoulder to hip. 

This night, Fíli read to her of Durin’s Bane and the loss of the dwarf kingdom of Khazad-dum. Clove heard little of it, immersed in his husky, masculine voice, the way the firelight played upon his golden hair, and the wonderful heat of his body beside her.

OoOoOo

Ríkin paused in the doorway, a slow, dangerous smile spreading across his lips. He knew he’d not left a mug upon the table beside his bed. Nor, he thought, had he left the linens upon the bed wrinkled. His trap had ensnared him his prey, right enough, and he couldn’t be happier.

Turning at the waist, he nodded at his brothers. The two hefted the burlap bags of flour they’d secreted away days before in demonstration. All was prepared.

_*She’s here,*_ he signed to them.

Eikin’s grin threatened to crack his face clear in twain, and Thekkin’s shoulders shook with silent laughter. _*She’s likely to throw a fit at what we’re about to do to the floors,*_ Eikin commented.

Aye, like as not, Eikin was correct, but he’d not risk his lassie eluding them. Not this time. _*She’ll recover.*_ After the trial she’d put them through, a little flour was the least of her worries. 

He stepped into his bedchamber and quietly shut the door. His brothers, he knew, would be dusting the floor throughout their home with flour. If his brownie managed to get around Ríkin now, she’d still not reach the front door. 

_Yer mine now, my Pepper._

A soft, sleepy sound accompanied movement. The wrinkles upon the bed shifted. 

Mahal. Hot emotions surged through him. Satisfaction, aye, there was that. And relief. But anger surged, too. He had many hard words itching for voice, and he’d be venting them in full. Ríkin stalked to the bed, careful to keep his steps light, and lifted the mug to his nose. 

A sniff was followed by a quick taste. By Durin, it was good. Another sip, and sweet revenge crossed his mind. His smile adopted a wicked edge. A shame to waste such a fine brew, but she had this coming.

OoOoOo

Pepper sputtered awake to a face-full of mead, heart thumping as she tried to figure out just what was happening. Before her brain could make sense of her surroundings, the mattress tilted. She squawked as she tumbled head over heals down its length and spilled from the bed onto her rump. A small, "Ooof," escaped her.

“Ye’ve some explaining to do, lassie. And this time, you’ll not be escaping me.”

Ríkin, his voice hard and uncompromising. All her good intentions to honor Thorin’s decree…mostly…flew from head. Frantic with the overwhelming need to touch him, Pepper vaulted over the upended mattress and threw herself into his arms. Her lips found his, kissing him with all the loneliness, regret, and love in her heart. 

At first, the lips beneath hers turned hard and unmoving, and Pepper’s heart crumbled. But then iron arms clamped around her, and the kiss deepened as Ríkin returned it with interest, alleviating her fears. 

His heart had not turned cold towards her, despite their foolish king and her idiotic determination to follow him. Ríkin’s big hands clenched about fistfuls of her dress as he became the aggressor, the embrace scorching her through and through. 

Pepper pulled back, hands bracketing Ríkin’s beloved face, and urged his forehead to hers, copying a gesture she knew fraught with meaning to the dwarves.

Then she burst into messy tears.

OoOoOo

Ríkin’s heart pounded in his chest as his brownie sobbed into his neck. His arms ran down Pepper’s back before locking about her once more. His temper cooled in a hurry.

Her tears were not the response of a lassie uncaring of their separation. He’d girded himself for a fight – aye, and he fiercely desired one after the grief he’d endured – but mayhap she was not the one he needed to be fighting. 

A suspicion reared its ugly head. The Terrors haunted Erebor. That he knew full well. They’d not departed. Could the Terrors have done something to the dwarves’ brownies? Or had some dwarf dared touch a brownie in such a way as to cause them all to fear and hide? 

The growl that issued from him would have sent his warriors running for cover. His Pepper hugged him tighter. That spoke of trust.

Ríkin nudged her chin upwards and kissed her again. ‘twas both slow and gentle this time, one set upon convincing her of his affections. Then he nuzzled his nose to hers, their breaths intermingling. 

He wanted answers. And by Durin, he’d be getting them, too. Grunting, he used one arm to keep her in his grasp – he’d not be loosening his hold anytime soon, not after the endless, worrisome months he’d just lived – and left the room in search of the infernal candle his dam had insisted was so all-fired important to brownies. 

His brothers lingered in the main room, both looking earnest and, aye, a wee bit ridiculous with flour dusting their boots, breeches and beards. Their house was a right mess, the floor blanketed with pale powder. 

Upon sighting Ríkin with an invisible lassie in his arms, Eikin whooped, pounding Thekkin’s back. Thekkin plopped his sack of flour down, a puff of white blowing out its open flap. A grin split his flour-iced beard. 

_*Success,*_ Thekkin signed. _*Has she yet told you what caused her to hide from us?*_

Ríkin shook his head shortly, lips brushing across the lassie’s hairline. His temper once more rumbled to life, and his hold on the brownie tightened. 

A short rap sounded on the door. Pepper stiffened and then wiggled for freedom. 

_Nay, I’ll not be letting ye go, lassie._ Ríkin kept a firm grip upon his brownie as the door opened and his dam and sire slipped inside. While Dalkin looked about himself in disbelief, Tova’s blue eyes widened, and a slow smile curled her lips. The door was quickly sealed in their wake. Pepper, he noted, relaxed as the familiar chime of bells broke the silence. 

Aye. Just what Ríkin had wanted. A larger audience. “Eikin,” Ríkin reproved, knowing well enough how his dam knew to be there. “Ye told her of our plan?”

Eikin had the grace to look a wee bit ashamed as he offered, “She gave me the look.”

“Coward,” Thekkin and Ríkin grumbled in unison.

Eikin scowled, but Ríkin’s sire smirked, like as not pleased as could be that his mate still commanded such respect from his sons. 

Tova preened. “Be a dear, my Eikin, and get a candle. Thekkin, a plate with food.”

Ríkin sighed loudly and heard his Pepper’s watery giggle against his neck. His hold tightened in response. By Durin, it felt good to hold her. Nuzzling her cider-soaked curls, he inhaled deeply.

OoOoOo

Thorin, Tova thought, would suffer an apoplexy if he knew what her family was about. She ruffled her beard, amused and pleased at the notion. _Done in by his own secrecy._

Thorin had never banned the dwarves from attempting to contact their Helpers outside of not speaking audibly to them. He’d seen no reason to do so. The king, she decided, had vastly underestimated his dwarves. Especially her son. 

Mahal, but it did her heart good to see Ríkin with his arms full of his invisible Pepper. A peculiar sight, but a welcome one. 

“We already had it prepared, Amâd,” Thekkin informed her in a dry voice. “Ye seem to think us lacking all sense, but I assure you, ‘tis not so.”

Tova patted her eldest’s cheek. “Says the dwarf covered in flour.”

“Amâd,” Eikin complained.

“Tova,” her Dalkin said, capturing her hand. 

“My lover?”

Her mate’s free hand delved through her beard, setting the bells to singing. “Ye’ve seen what ye came to see. This is now Ríkin’s to do.” 

Blast. She frowned but knew her mate correct. The family could and would aid Ríkin any way they could to remove the barriers between himself and their Pepper, but once that was done, it really was up to the two to mend what had gone wrong. 

“When did you grow so wise?” she asked, cuddling up to her mate’s side. 

Dalkin’s smile warmed her to the tips of her toes. “Shall we discuss it in the comfort of our own home?” he murmured.

Tova hustled her handsome mate out the door.

OoOoOo

Ríkin grunted as both parents and brothers retreated to their own beds, leaving him alone with his lassie. He owed his sire tremendous thanks for this, and he’d not be forgetting it. Privacy was what was needed now.

Ríkin snatched up the candlestick and plate laden with food that the brothers had prepared earlier, balancing all in his right hand. Returning to his room, he prodded the door shut with a hip and deposited the accoutrements onto the table. 

Plate, food, and candle. ‘twas all he should need, but Pepper had ignored such before. _She’ll not ignore me now,_ he growled to himself. He sat upon the sole chair in the room, legs outstretched, and rubbed the lassie’s back, mind churning. 

Pepper had not left him of her own volition, that was plain, and his jaw clenched to think an unknown person dared frightened his bold lassie into hiding. With Pepper’s breath tickling his neck, Ríkin reached over and lit the candle.

OoOoOo

Her dwarf’s chest rumbled as the candle sat there, flickering, yet she made no move to make herself visible. Or speak. The tension thickened and thickened, and Pepper could think of only one way to convey all she felt without shattering Thorin’s trust. To leave Ríkin one gift was bending the rules. To openly speak would be a direct violation.

Pepper wouldn’t do that. She’d stay silent as the king had commanded, but there were other ways of being heard than through speech. She’d been carrying a gift for her dwarf for over three months now. Pepper was not positive how it would be received – from her observation, it was the male who typically bestowed such a gift – but she’d felt compelled to complete it, arguing in her own mind that she needn’t actually give it to him. She could compose it and keep it close for comfort.

“Why will ye not speak?” Ríkin burst as she debated within herself. His hand burrowed in her hair. “Do ye not think yer silence is worse than knowing the truth, my Pepper? Do ye have any idea the pain ye caused us? We thought you gone for months. Thekkin tore his beard to shreds with his worry, and Eikin fared little better. Our amâd walked about as if it was her fault and...”

Pepper placed her gift in his palm and curled his fingers around it. The barrage of angry words ended. Claiming his other hand, she lifted the fingers to her face, allowing him to feel the tears streaming down her cheek. It was the only apology she could give.

OoOoOo

Ríkin’s thumb wiped across his lassie’s cheek. She’d not removed herself from their lives willingly, and, it seemed, she felt forced to remain silent. How could he get to the bottom of this if she’d not _speak?_ Forcing his temper under control, he turned his attention to the object she’d pressed into his opposite hand. His eyes flared.

‘twas a lad’s place to create a bracelet when approaching a lassie, one made only by his own hands. Ríkin had been of a mind to create one just before his lassie had vanished on him. The bracelet symbolized the intent to pursue courtship between dwarf and maid, and when the lad presented it, by donning it the lassie expressed interest…and exclusivity. No maid wearing such a thing could be honorably approached by another, not until she removed it of her own accord. 

His lassie had made him a bracelet. _By Durin, Pepper._

With fingers acting as guides, his lips claimed hers in the most tender of kisses, the fingers of his free hand tangling in her curls. Then he held her tight as his eye roved over the piece. 

Made of her own hair, it was, the pale, fiery strands braided into a tight weave that formed the cord. And upon the cord, beads. Whilst the shapes of the beads were none too intricate, the simple designs were clean and easily identified. He fingered the wee wooden cakes, honey pots, halberds, and candles with a swelling of emotion that robbed him of speech. 

‘twas full of meaning betwixt them, and Pepper was bold to declare herself so. He’d be remembering to tell their bairns of this one day. For there _would_ be bairns. Of that he was suddenly, utterly committed. She was not escaping him again. 

Affixing the bracelet to his wrist with pride, his lips twitched to imagine his brothers’ reactions. He was in for a long stretch of teasing, aye, he was. Truth be told, he looked forward to it. ‘twas not every dwarf whose lassie fought so for his favor. 

A snort escaped him, remembering Stina’s many mishaps. His Pepper had a mean streak when defending what was hers. Aye, she did. It pleased him immensely. 

Nuzzling his brownie’s curls, he said, “I need to hear it, lassie. Ye must tell me why ye hide.”

Silence. Ríkin held his temper. Something constrained her, and he’d not lambaste her, not when he had no inkling what it might be. At last, she reached a decision. Her fingers twined with his. Then with a tug, she urged him to his feet. 

His Pepper led him away from the populated sections of Erebor, deeper and deeper into the mountain. ‘twas clear to him her feet knew this path well, for though she stumbled over rubble, thereby proving she could not see in the pitch black passages, she knew when to turn and where stairs would be. 

To spare her after the second trip of her feet, they developed a system of sorts. His lassie kept her hand upon his and indicated the direction he should guide them by the brush of a finger across the top of his hand. 

She was taking care not to betray her presence, solidifying in his mind that her disappearance was in some way linked to the Terrors. Had one managed to attack her? 

Ríkin bit back another growl as they made their way across a narrow bridge. By now, they were nearing the Old Keep, and he wondered if that might be her destination until she veered off at the end of the bridge to a path leading – or so the runes upon the marker said – to Zamdul-khar, one of Erebor’s empty villages. ‘twas a fact, none of the dwarves dwelled so deep in the mountain, preferring to remain close to the rest of their people.

Here it was she led him, and in this village she reached her destination. She prodded him to open the door leading into one of the town’s largest houses. 

Curious, he did as she indicated. Dim light spilled from inside the instant the door opened. Ríkin’s eyes widened to see three dark-haired females he was certain were brownies with their long ears and slight builds. All three looked to be in the midst of some project with fabric in one hand and needle with thread in the other. 

Young, all of them, and one not yet having reached maturity, he was sure. Another had a face fair covered in a patchwork of scars, a sight that chilled him in the brief glimpse he had of it. Then in unison, the wide-eyed brownies vanished. 

The wee lassie’s scars haunted him for one long moment. Well did he remember his Pepper’s words about asking Thorin about Faerie, their homeland. Had something done the same to _his_ brownie? Mahal. What kind of monsters would prey on such a people as these? His anger flared along with a healthy dose of worry. 

He had to clap eyes on his Pepper, and soon at that. He had to see what damage had been done to her, too.

OoOoOo

Pepper longed to hide as her sister’s face darkened.

“What are you doing?” Nutmeg mouthed, incredulous and angry as she rose to her feet, one hand white about the blanket she’d been embroidering for weeks as a gift for Bilbo. 

Pepper urged Ríkin through the room, tossing a guilty look at her sister. Nutmeg hated to be seen by any but their own people. If Pepper had suspected her sister would be here, she’d never have brought Ríkin without warning. 

“Sorry,” she mouthed back, wincing as Nutmeg’s lips flattened. To Comfrey and Hyssop, Pepper mouthed, “He found me.”

“How?” Comfrey said silently, brows rising as she, too, claimed her feet. The younger brownie fell in beside Pepper as Pepper led Ríkin to the storage room in the rear of the two-storied house.

A sheepish look at her friend, and Pepper pantomimed falling asleep. Comfrey snorted, an impish grin upon her face. Pointing one finger at Pepper, the brownie shook her head with a silent laugh. 

Pepper shrugged in return. What could she say? Comfrey was right. It _would_ be Pepper to slip up in such a way.

OoOoOo

Wash bins. Simple spindles and looms. Small dresses hung out to dry. Realization set in as his brownie led him through the main room. This house was the brownies’ refuge, it was. Where they did the work of caring for the dwarves and where they took care of their personal needs.

Ríkin rubbed his nose. Truth be told, ‘twas a relief. He’d not considered it before, but he didn’t much care for the thought of his Pepper sneaking about to bathe, always at risk of discovery. But this hiding? ‘twas no way to live. He wanted better for her. 

She paused to light a lantern hanging upon a peg at the back of the room before leading him down a hallway. Apparently, she felt it safe to reveal herself that much, for she carried the lantern herself. 

A quick check, and Ríkin grunted, lips twisting sourly. ‘twas beyond the pale, it was. What had Eru been thinking, making the lassies so invisible they cast no shadow? _Unfair,_ he labeled.

At the end of the hallway, his lassie opened a wooden door. Then stepping inside, she lifted the lantern, giving him a good eyeful of the room beyond. What he saw perplexed him. 

Garlands. Baskets. Feathers and flowers. Casks – mayhap of the honey mead matting her hair? He scratched his head, darting a look in her direction. While the goods arrayed before him gave him a good idea what she’d been doing all this while, what did it have to do with her vanishing on him? 

Annoyance flared. This explained nothing. 

But then tiny feet came atop his boots, and his lassie’s back pressed to his chest. Her arms drew his left about her middle, and he felt the giggles jiggling her belly. By Durin, he’d not let her disappear on him again. His nose lowered into her curls, and Pepper patted his left arm before she coaxed his right arm into the air, using his own finger to point him in one direction. 

Holding her in place with his left hand and smirking as she clutched at his biceps to stabilize her perch, he walked where she’d indicated, his feet bearing hers. What he saw there sobered him in a hurry. Sketches, there were. Dozens of them, all showing ghastly creatures resembling men. 

_Dead men,_ he corrected himself. In the sketches, dwarves cowered before the creatures as the creatures looked on with malice. The dark, roiling eyes unnerved him, for the artist had captured such malevolence, such evil, as he’d never seen. 

“By Durin, my Pepper. Is this what I believe it is?” he asked in a low voice. 

He felt her head nod against his chest. 

_The Terrors._ So. Their enemy had a face. One the brownies saw. “Do ye know what they are about?”

A nod, then a shake of the head. 

“Unsure?” he probed, the junior captain displacing the lover. He kept his voice calm, but inside, calm was the last name he’d pin upon himself. Flipping through the pictures, he noted patterns.

His lassie shook her head no. 

“Ye know some of what they are about,” he concluded and felt her instant nod. His right index finger plunked down upon one picture in particular. “They watch our king.”

_Nod._

“Does Thorin know of this?”

_Nod._

_Aulë’s lifted hammer._ He took a deep breath. “He knows what they are.”

_Nod._

“He knows why they are here.”

_Nod._

A chill crept up his spine. “He keeps silent to protect us,” he concluded.

_Nod._

A sudden leap of intuition. The ban on speaking of their brownies aloud now made sense. _He protects them,_ Ríkin realized. _“Thorin_ ordered ye to disappear,” he accused, a surge of anger welling up within him. “Because of these.” His finger plunked down upon one of the Terrors depicted before him. 

_Nod._

_Mahal._ He cuddled his lassie closer, eye locked upon the image of the Terror atop the pile. “Do the Terrors know about your people?”

His knees fair wobbled with relief at her quick shake of the head. _Thank Aulë and all the Valar._ The king’s early intervention had headed that off. “Who have the Terrors attacked, my Pepper?”

Her fingers rifled through a second stack of pages, emerging with pictures of individual dwarves. Thorin. Fíli. Ríkin. Balin. Dwalin. _Our leadership,_ he noted, not surprised in the least. Any who would organize the dwarves’ defenses. 

His lassie nudged him before putting down more pictures. Áki, Litin, and five others he did not recognize. She plunked a picture of Órvar atop of these others and placed them to the side forming two separate piles. 

“Órvar?” he demanded.

_Nod._

By Durin. He’d thought the dwarf dead of a heart ailment. _Why attack the sculptor?_ Why any in the second pile? Mind working, he asked, “Ye separated these others for a reason, aye?”

_Nod._

None of the second group were in positions of authority. Litin was a simple miner, a cheerful sort but not too bright. Áki was their brewmaster. While the loss of his ales and ciders would be lamented by many a dwarf, his death could not be counted as tragic as losing Dwalin or Fíli. “Random attacks.”

An emphatic nod answered him. 

Mahal, but ‘twas slow going. “Can ye not write this out for me?” he snapped, worry turning his voice sharp.

Her wee hand lifted to caress the scarred side of his face. She slowly shook her head.

“Ye cannot write.”

_Nod._

_Ah, lassie._ “We’ll be fixing that once this mess is righted,” he said roughly, tugging upon a lock of her hair. Returning to the first pile, he asked, “Prince Kíli?” 

She shook her head. 

“Princess Dís?”

Another shake. _No._

The Terrors, he decided, had underestimated Dís if they discounted her. _Their mistake._ Still, that they threatened the king and his heir infuriated him. Ríkin vowed he would do all in his power to prevent the Terrors from harming either. Not an easy task, for sure. How was a dwarf to confront and defeat such creatures? 

Pepper returned an image back to the forefront, one of a dwarf cowering before a Terror. Then claiming his right hand, she again caused him to point all around the room. 

“By Durin,” he swore softly. “That’s what this is about? The decorations? To counter what the Terrors have done?”

_Nod._

As he chewed that over, his Pepper twisted in his arms to hug him tight. He rubbed her back. ‘twas a simple solution, and a good one. Eyes narrowed in thought, he considered the matter. When he’d been assaulted, ‘twas warmth and good that brought him through. As distracted as he’d been these last months by his lassie’s disappearance, he’d not failed to note the weariness of spirit stealing over his kindred. 

_Weakening us._ Ríkin’s hands twitched, hungry to feel his halberd. Like as not, the weapon would be useless against such a foe, but he knew, looking at the dark eyes in the Terrors’ images, he’d not leave home without it again. The dirk he carried no longer felt sufficient when off-duty. Not with _them_ roaming about.

“Why have ye not used the decorations, my lassie?”

Thorin’s picture returned to the top of the pile. 

_Trying to protect them,_ Ríkin thought again. _Mahal._ He rubbed his jaw with one hand. He could not go to Thorin if the king had ordered their brownies into deep hiding. And truth be told, as much as he wanted his Pepper beside him, he’d rather her safe above all else. 

The parchment pages shuffled again and a new picture came to the top. “Prince Kíli?”

_Nod._

“What of him?”

She pointed his finger at the decorations once more. 

He rolled his hale eye, exasperated. “Ye’ve been ordered into hiding. I cannot tell him his uncle…” She shook her head. His finger was jabbed at Kíli’s picture over and over until he rescued it with a scowl. “Stubborn,” he muttered.

A finger poked into his chest. 

He grinned. “My spicy lassie.”

Fingers drummed upon his shoulder. 

“’tis true,” he told her with growing amusement. “Ye have a temper.”

One foot came down upon his boot. He supposed it was intended to be a stomp, but if her hopping about was any indication, her foot had come out the worse for it. Snorting, he drew her close. “Aye, a temper.”

Her shake of the head said she did not agree.

“The cake we wore says otherwise,” he murmured. His thumb tapped her nose. “And I seem to recall a vat of honey ye misplaced upon my head, too.”

Her sigh, followed by her arms returning about his waist, told him he’d won that round. _Aye. Spicy._

His gaze returned to the depiction of Prince Kíli. The two had butt heads on more than one occasion, and that was Durin’s truth. His own fault, Ríkin freely admitted now. He’d labeled the prince foolish and naïve for his support of the “Helpers.” _Aye, and I’ll be eating crow for it, too._

“All right,” he told his lassie. “I’ll see Prince Kíli.”

She jumped up and down in his grasp before throwing her arms around his neck and planting a kiss on his cheek. 

_Mahal._ Gruffly, he added, “’twill take more than two dwarves to decorate Erebor.”

She bounced from his grasp. Then a finger poked his chest once more, then drew his hand to her. Back to him. Then to her. 

“Aye, lassie, ye have my heart, too,” he said roughly, touched by her gesture.

A pause. Her hand patted his cheek as she lifted his palm so that he could feel her smile. She kissed his palm before turning and selecting more pictures from another pile. These, she paged through slowly to give him a good look at each. 

With his arm snaked around her waist, he watched closely. Bilbo, he recognized straight away. Grómi as well for the dwarf had charge of the barracks. Húni. Nyri and Nyrar. Steinur and Stígur. 

His lassie again drew his hand between them. _Host-families,_ he realized. Many dwarves had been aided by their “Helpers”, aye, but those who had housed them would know their lack. If he told those families that decorating the halls was for their brownies, he suspected not one would hesitate. 

_Like as not, many not belonging to the brownies will wish to help, too._

Thorin had forbidden the brownies to act in their defense. But there was naught prohibiting the dwarves from doing so on their own. The brownies had supplied the tools. Eyeing the room, it seemed a shame that all would remain hidden away. Especially, he thought as his gaze crossed the casks, the mead. 

His brownie snuggled up to his side. Aye, she was a smart lassie as well as a spicy one. _Mine._ The bracelet he wore confirmed that, and he’d have one on her wrist as soon as he could manage it. One with amber, fire opals, and citrines to match her fiery nature and bonny hair. Aye, all spun together with gold. 

The picture forming in his mind pleased him greatly. ‘twas certain to look grand upon his lady’s wrist. Once he managed to see his lady. 

He dropped a kiss upon her long ear and felt her shiver in response. Mahal, but she pleased him.

‘twas time to seek Kíli. They had some Halls to deck.


	9. Rallying the Troops

### Chapter 9

How had he lost control of the situation? ‘twas what Ríkin longed to know. It had seemed a simple enough matter the night before. Get some sleep, then visit Erebor’s youngest prince and convince him to decorate Erebor. 

Instead, Ríkin found himself stomping down the street with quite the entourage. His lassie, aye, she was by his side for he was not yet ready to let her out of his immediate vicinity. But also brothers, dam and sister. 

His pride smarted ere they left the village to know his apology to the prince would be witnessed by the entirety of his family but for his sire. ‘twas made worse when Tova insisted they collect the brownies’ other host-families before setting course to the royal quarters at all. They’d need the extra hands, right enough, but he’d have preferred to fetch them _after_ he admitted the error of his ways to the prince.

“Tell me again why it is my sister needs to join us,” he grumbled to his mother. Pepper tugged upon his beard. He assumed he was being chided, but claimed the hand and kissed her palm anyway. His dam, however, turned to him with a familiar, calculating look that turned his bowels to ice. 

_Mahal._ Eikin and Thekkin stopped in their tracks, their faces like as not as pale as his own. Their mouths formed the words that would tender their excuses, he read the intent upon their faces. 

Before they could voice them, however, their sister suddenly realized their party was short of two brothers. “Is something amiss?” Tíra asked. 

Ríkin tugged his lassie to stand before him as a shield as his brothers blurted, “’tis naught,” and “Nothing,” in unison, their eyes wide as their dam lifted one brow at them. His Pepper, he thought sourly, needn’t be so all-fired amused. ‘twas the truth, she laughed so hard, she clutched his arm to remain upon her feet, her laughter felt for all of its silence. Ríkin pinched her for that, earning a light slap upon his chest in return. 

They continued upon their way. As Tíra’s gaze roamed from brother to brother, each avoided her eyes. She turned to their dam with lifted brows, and Tova offered a genuine smile. No trace of that _look_ remained to be found upon their amâd’s face. 

‘twas eerie, that look, and had Tíra seen it, she would have fled in terror. Well did they all remember the fiasco involving Thekkin and a certain dark-haired dwarrowmaid with a horrid giggle that could peel the paint from the wall. It had been a relief for them all when the maid had set her cap upon a shy, Iron Hills warrior instead, thereby sparing Thekkin. ‘twas then that the children of Dalkin had learned the frightening truth: their dam turned into a rampaging auroch at the faintest hint grandchildren might be on the horizon. They’d learned not to betray interest in the opposite gender, not unless they wished to see that auroch unleashed again.

For Ríkin, this side of his sweet mother had posed no difficulty. He’d been fixated upon his Pepper before Tova set foot within Erebor. But for his siblings, he could only sympathize. Who could his mother intend for Tíra? His mind reviewed the dwarves he knew from among the brownies’ host-families. 

Then a suspicion, alarming indeed. _Aulë’s lifted hammer._ She’d not be so daft as to set her daughter’s cap upon the prince. Would she? 

_Aye,_ he thought. The horror of the situation stole over him. Why, Thorin would be justified in booting the entire family from the mountain once he got a taste of Tova at her match-making best. 

Was it too late to simply throw his lassie over his shoulder, return to their home, and barricade the twain of them inside until ‘twas over?

_*I say we run for it,*_ Eikin signed when their dam’s head was turned in the other direction. 

_*Do ye think we stand a chance?*_ Thekkin returned.

A glance between the three brothers. Nay, not really.

OoOoOo

Kíli eyed his brother as they finished their breakfast, his amusement growing. Fíli was hiding something from him. He had been for months now. Kíli had suspected as much before, but this week, the suspicion solidified into certainty. Kíli recognized the signs. Struggling to smother a grin, he belched his appreciation of the meal, grin safely flashing at Fíli’s disgruntled expression.

“What?” Kíli demanded, batting innocent eyes at him.

His brother grumbled about manners beneath his breath.

“Are we striving to emulate the elves now?” he asked, thoroughly enjoying himself. 

No answer, but his brother shifted in his seat and scowled. 

Yes, Fíli was hiding something from him. Did his brother think this time would be any different from the dozen or so prior attempts in their past? Kíli mentally clucked his tongue and shook his head. Fíli had _never_ succeeded in hiding anything from him. Not for long. And he wouldn’t this time, either, he decided with relish. 

Kíli tossed back another gulp of ale. “Who is she?” he asked, a shot in the dark. A shot that scored a hit, he realized with a laugh as his brother tensed. 

Pale eyes ordered Kíli not to venture down _that_ road any farther. Confirmation. “I don’t know what you mean,” Fíli said, refilling his own mug from the pitcher on the table. 

Who could it be? Kíli considered the matter. Was the maid from one of the three groups to emigrate to Erebor from the Iron Hills? Or the Ered Luin party? _Can’t be Ered Luin,_ he decided. He and Fíli had grown up there. His brother would not have been able to conceal a romance with one of those lasses. So. The Iron Hills, then. 

A knock on the door interrupted his ruminations. He debated ignoring it. It was not Thorin at the door – that knock, both brothers would recognize in an instant. Anyone else could wait. This was too interesting.

Fíli’s hand tightened about his mug. “Do you intend to ignore your visitor?”

“Maybe,” Kíli said, smirking.

Fíli rolled his eyes. “Very mature.”

Perhaps not. With an exaggerated sigh, Kíli climbed to his feet. “If you _insist.”_

OoOoOo

_Mahal spare me._ Kíli scented a secret, and Fíli wanted to groan into his hand.

He’d like nothing more than to confide about his clove-scented brownie, but he did not want to risk Thorin putting a halt to the nightly assignations. Kíli was more than just his sibling. He was his best friend. But Fíli knew better than anyone that if his brother had a subtle bone in his body, it would take a team of experts and weeks of hard labor to locate it. 

And truthfully, Fíli was not ready to share his brownie. The time he had with her was limited enough already. These many months, he’d learned her silences. Fíli knew when she was amused or when she was curious. He could discern her emotions through the simple contact of shoulder brushing shoulder, yet frustration had of late claimed him. He’d not begun to plumb the depths of her mind, and he wished the freedom to speak with her. 

The fact was, Fíli didn’t want his brother interrupting. The relationship felt fragile in Fíli’s hands, and precious. He knew his brother too well. If Kíli found out about his brownie, he _would_ feel compelled to join them if only to tease Fíli mercilessly. 

Fíli sipped his ale, a reluctant snort escaping him. Life with Kíli around was never dull, he’d give his brother that. 

Behind his back, he heard the door open, and Kíli’s surprised voice. Curiosity prodded Fíli to his feet and to the door. 

A dozen dwarves and one hobbit clustered before Kíli’s doorstep, many of them looking mighty determined. Fíli’s gaze swept across them, his surprise growing at the strange assortment – the junior captain, Ríkin, and his two brothers; the clockmaker, Nyrar, and his cousin, Nyri, the glassblower; the two tapestry weavers (he couldn’t quite remember their names), and Grómi. A family of three he could not recall meeting. Three females were in the group. The red-headed and brown-haired matrons wore intricate marriage braids that dangled over their right ears. The third wore her silver hair free but for a braid showing her House. 

The red-headed matron bowed to him when Fíli’s gaze reached her, the bells she wove into her beard chiming. “Prince.”

Fíli’s gaze slid to his brother’s. Kíli, he determined, had no idea what this was about. And, he realized with growing exultation, his brother was having a hard time keeping his eyes from the silver-haired, pink-cheeked maid. Fíli’s mustache trembled as he swallowed a smug smile. Perhaps Kíli wouldn’t be as much an impediment to his own unorthodox courtship as he’d feared. 

With difficulty, Fíli hid his sudden mirth and directed his attention back to the group before them. “Bilbo?” 

Kíli shifted closer as Bilbo wound his way to the head of the pack. Their hobbit cleared his throat, his brown eyes alight with humor. “Ah. I’m not quite sure why I’m here. I was enjoying a spot of tea when Matron…?”

“Tova,” the red-headed matron provided, her face creased with a big smile as she jingled the bells in her beard. 

“Tova,” Bilbo said, nodding once. Back to Fíli, “When the lady requested…” a sardonic roll of the eye “…that I accompany her.”

“A moment, and my son will explain, my princes,” Matron Tova said. “If we might join you?” 

Fíli turned to Kíli, who in turn cocked a brow at him. “I believe they came to see you,” Fíli said, amused at the situation and gratified to see dwarves consulting Kíli. The younger prince was not as often sought out, and it was high time in Fíli’s estimation that Erebor’s populace started appreciating his brother. 

Kíli turned a disgruntled look his way before announcing, “Please, come in.”

OoOoOo

Kíli’s first clue that this impromptu meeting would be vastly more interesting than he’d anticipated was the unexpected touch of a small hand upon his. He startled, earning Fíli’s curious glance.

Kíli schooled his face into an expression of pleasant welcome for his guests as his mind raced. No one had been close enough to touch him. A second touch, and he knew. Jubilation filled him. His Helpers were here. A third, fourth, and fifth hand brushed his. 

Kíli took a deep breath, ignoring Fíli’s sudden, close scrutiny. _No fragrances._ He almost frowned. _They are hiding from us?_ Relief to find they remained collided with a new worry. Why would they hide so? Did the Helpers not trust them?

Before the mixed group could explain themselves, Fíli startled. “Mahal. I’m late. Uncle is waiting.” 

Fíli was leaving him in charge? Kíli was about to grin when he received a measuring look from his brother. “Go,” Kíli said soberly. “If this is a matter needing your attention, I’ll inform you later.” _If_ it would not prove detrimental to the Helpers, he tacked on privately.

Fíli nodded. Then, after inclining his head to the others in the room, he departed. The door clicked shut behind him. 

Kíli’s brows rose as he scanned the group. His gaze stalled once more when it reached the silver-haired maiden. By Durin’s beard, she put even the elfess Tauriel to shame. He tore free of those magnetic blue eyes, clearing his throat. Bilbo, he noticed, watched him with growing amusement. Kíli gave him a wry look in return. 

“How can I be of assistance?” Kíli asked. A glance proved the maid’s eyes still lingered upon him, and a bright smile curled her lips. Though he suspected a familial link between the beauty and Ríkin, he could not resist. Kíli winked at her and was gratified when she turned bright red.

OoOoOo

Pepper near expired laughing to see Kíli wink at Tíra, and Tíra’s resulting blush. She didn’t believe either of the pair noticed the three brothers beginning to glower at the prince or the dwarrowdam observing all with smug satisfaction.

Pepper leaned into Ríkin’s back, knowing he’d feel the laughter shaking her frame. Later, she would blame her actions upon the months of loneliness mixed with the fear that she’d lose him. She suddenly realized Ríkin couldn’t betray her presence. He _wouldn’t,_ to the best of his ability, she was sure. That left a veritable world of options open to her. Since the day with the cake, there had been no play between them. That, she determined, had to change. Like, perhaps…now. 

Smiling and ignoring the way Nutmeg’s mouth formed an “O”, she leaned upon tip-toes and pressed a kiss to the nape of his neck. As far as distractions went, it was a resounding success. She was pretty sure he forgot his sister even existed for a heartbeat.

OoOoOo

Soft lips pressed to the nape of his neck, and Ríkin’s eyes near fell from his skull. His shoulders tensed. Mahal, what was his brownie... Was she _teasing_ him? Aye! And when he dared not respond. As if it was a game, this meeting. Or as if the prince was not flirting with his baby sister before his very eyes.

Through the brush of lips, he felt Pepper’s smile as she kissed that same spot again. 

“Ríkin?” 

Was that Prince Kíli’s voice? 

With difficulty, Ríkin refocused upon the prince and tried to ignore the brownie pressing into him from behind. _I’ll be getting even, my lassie,_ he promised as she ran hands up his arms, her wee body trembling with laughter. _By Aulë and all the Valar._ Aye. A braid. He cared naught if he must do so blind. If she was going to take such liberties, he’d have both courtship and betrothal braids upon her head this eve. By Durin, he would. 

Thekkin nudged him to attention, and he realized the prince eyed him with growing amusement. His dam smirked knowingly, and his brothers surveyed him as if he was daft. 

_Yer playing with fire, my lassie. Mark my words, I’ll have my revenge._

His Pepper’s finger traced a circle upon the back of his hand, and at first, he struggled to remember ‘twas the signal they’d agreed upon. She had to repeat it thrice before he realized he’d been given the all’s-clear. None of the Terrors lurked in the room, and that was a relief. Aye, and ‘twas good to know she was still alert to the danger of their situation. 

_Playing,_ he grumbled. _At such a time as this._ Yet, he felt his own spirits lift. By Durin, he was relieved to have her back. And proud, aye he was, to have won such a lassie. 

Ríkin rolled his shoulders and cleared his throat, heat stealing up his neck as he realized he’d stood there staring into space for a good while with over a dozen dwarves gazing at him expectantly. He hesitated, irritated anew to have to make his apologies publicly. Then a wee foot nudged him in the ankle, and his lips quirked. Aye, spicy. “’tis the truth, I’m owing you an apology, Prince.”

OoOoOo

Clove smothered a laugh behind her hand as Pepper ran a finger down Ríkin’s neck, causing his apology to falter. Watching her older sister with the gray-haired dwarf, Clove felt a pang of envy and regret. She adored each minute with her prince, but now she longed to kick herself. It had never occurred to her to use touch to speak with him. Given Thorin’s decree, the possibility never crossed her mind.

She supposed Pepper was correct. After Ríkin had stumbled upon her, what was the use in hiding? Eyes narrowing, Clove berated herself soundly. She could at least hold Fíli’s hand. Couldn’t she?

OoOoOo

Kíli listened with growing bafflement – and a measure of wicked glee – as the Helper’s arch-nemesis (as he’d dubbed him in his mind) apologized stiffly before him. Truth be told, he felt a touch of sympathy well up within him, too, for the dwarf’s ear-tips were turning red. Who would have thought Dwalin’s stodgy underling so bashful?

“As entertaining as this is, laddie…” one of the other dwarves interrupted. With the colorful glass beads adorning his beard, Kíli easily recognized him as the glassblower, Nyri. 

Ríkin startled, and Kíli’s focus sharpened to see Ríkin’s hand surreptitiously lash out behind him, grasping at nothing. Kíli’s eyes flared wide and a laugh almost burst from his lips. _Helper._ What was the Helper doing to rile the dwarf so? And why?

“…ye’ve not told us why ye’ve brought us together. And while we appreciate the show, we do have work to be doing.” Then silently, _*Ye promised word of our Helpers.*_

Kíli straightened. Helpers were present, and now Ríkin promised news of them? “Ríkin?” 

Ríkin seemed to abandon his attempts at recollecting his dignity with a wry and resigned glance at his brothers. “Aye, it’s as ye say,” Ríkin said at last. “I’ve news.” Then in iglishmêk, _*Our Helpers left behind a gift for us, and I’m thinking it’s high time we use it.*_

Questions immediately sprang up from all but Bilbo, fingers waggling as demands were made for answers. Ríkin reached into his tunic, withdrew a thick stack of parchment pages, and began to pass them out as he continued, careful with his words. “They had another festival planned for us,” Ríkin explained. “To aid us.”

“Against the fear that haunts our Halls, ye mean?” Nyri demanded, the glassblower’s hands running down his beard and fiddling with the beads they encountered. 

“Why is nothing being done about it?” blond-haired Grómi asked. 

Kíli chose his words with care. “I don’t believe Uncle understands what is happening.” He tapped his fingers against his belt. “Thus far, there seems no danger. Only the fear.” Kíli almost retracted the statement when Ríkin’s good eye zoomed to him, disagreement upon the junior captain’s face, but the other dwarf quickly redirected the conversation.

Kíli listened intently as Ríkin detailed discovering a house full of decorations and showing them the sketches he’d found. The dwarves and Bilbo clustered around him, examining and remarking over each. 

Though Kíli absorbed every word, he was more intent about what Ríkin actually knew, for Kíli was certain the dwarf was holding back. Kíli’s dark eyes swept across the dwarf in search of clues. That was when he saw it - a bracelet dangling from the dwarf’s left wrist. At first, he attributed it to Stina, but no. That maid now avoided Ríkin with as much passion as she’d once pursued him. Her about-face had been the subject of gossip for weeks.

So who? And when? The forwardness of a maid offering such a gift to a dwarf would have set every tongue to wagging. Yet here stood Ríkin, a courtship bracelet on his wrist, and nary a word. 

_It has to be recent._ Speculation would be raging like wildfire if many had seen the object. _An invisible Helper teases him, and Ríkin still takes all care to shield her presence._ Kíli’s lips twitched. Which one had done it? Which had won over their grumpy guard? Clove? Pine? 

_Why keep the Helpers’ presence a secret?_ For that is what Ríkin did, presenting the case that by celebrating Yule as the Helpers had intended, the dwarves of Erebor might lure the Helpers back as well as counter the odd, oppressive air stealing over their Halls. 

_Why do you hide them?_ Kíli’s eyes narrowed. Why did the Helpers hide at all? Fingers tapping upon his belt, Kíli bided his time.

OoOoOo

“That’s not a part of Yule,” Bilbo commented, leaning over one of the parchment sketches. In it, a heavily bearded dwarf wore a red and white suit and carried a bag of presents upon his back. He was put to mind of Aleks’s description long ago of Earth Realm’s Santa Claus. Was that what these Faerie denizens were recreating?

A dozen dwarf eyes flew to him, many less than happy at his observation.

Bilbo cleared his throat. “I’m sorry, but it isn’t.”

Steinur, a dwarf with brown hair as wild as Bifur’s, rocked upon his feet. “Could be, could be.” Then with an easy smile, Steinur’s pale blue eyes twinkling, he said, “Yet our Helpers included it. If our purpose is to allow them help us, I’m thinking we should follow their plans. So our Yule will differ in part from that of the Shire.” Those pale eyes swept through the rest of them. “Seems to me it only makes it more particular to us.”

_Or,_ Bilbo thought dryly, _another realm’s._

“More dwarfish,” the blond dwarf, Grómi, decreed, folding his arms before his barrel of a chest. At Grómi’s words, many of the other dwarves looked much happier about the entire plan.

Why, Bilbo asked himself as the discussion flowed around him, had he been selected by Ríkin and Tova to be a part of this matter? It was gratifying to be included – he was not quibbling about it – but until this day, few dwarves sought him out for his opinion. If he was frank with himself, he had to admit these last months had been difficult. Bilbo had thought Thorin unwelcoming when he’d joined the Company, but now, he knew Thorin quite accepting of strangers when compared to most of his people. 

The younger Durin must have read the question in his eyes, for Kíli shrugged minutely and shook his head. Bilbo held his tongue for the moment and contented himself with listening, feeling more at home than he had for too long.

OoOoOo

Kíli winked at Bilbo as more and more oddities were stuffed into a traditional Shire holiday. If Bilbo’s expression was any indication, this new, _dwarfish_ Yule would have little in common with his friend’s beloved holiday.

Still, Kíli decided Bilbo seemed to find humor in the venture, and Kíli had long since decided Bilbo needed more humor. Why the hobbit remained among them when it was plain his heart longed for the Shire, Kíli had yet to ascertain. Thorin had commanded the matter left alone, so Kíli’s questions remained unanswered. 

Kíli rubbed his chin, exchanging a short look with Tíra. Those blue eyes gleamed with excitement as her brother finished outlining his plan, giving her a radiance that drew his gaze time and again. He cleared his throat, forcing his mind back to the matter at hand. 

His lips quirked. Kíli had to admit this Yule business sounded like fun. “Alright. We do as the Helpers intended.” To Nyri, Kíli directed, “Can you make enough of these glass globes for the tree?” 

Nyri folded his meaty arms over his colorful, bead-studded beard, his heavy black brows bunching above his nose. Then a warm smile. “For _our_ lassie, aye. I’ll see it done.” 

For their lassie? Kíli didn’t betray his thoughts with so much as a twitch of his eyebrows, but another suspicion reared its head. Why had Ríkin chosen these dwarves in particular? Why Bilbo? There had to be a reason. Nyri’s proclamation, and the staunch agreement from every dwarf in the room, provided a clue to the answer.

OoOoOo

Silent tears tracked down Hyssop’s face at Nyri’s bold words, and Comfrey wrapped an arm around their youngest’s shoulders. Pepper stopped teasing Ríkin and wrapped her arms around him, almost undone by how much she and her sister brownies gained from these dwarves. Gruff and opinionated, they might be, but they had hearts of pure gold.

“They love you,” she mouthed to Hyssop and received a watery smile in return.

OoOoOo

Something changed his lassie’s mood, for instead of teasing, she wrapped her arms around him and stayed there. Ríkin spared a thought to be grateful, both for his lassie herself and that her teasing had ended – though that would not save her from his retribution, nay it would not. Truth be told, it had only been the image of the Terrors that had halted him from locating her ankles on the spot and suspending her upside down once more.

His lassie, he suspected, would not have been pleased, but he could not help but laugh to picture it. The image was one he enjoyed, as impossible as it was at the moment. She’d blister his if she learned of it, for sure, but still… Aye, an amusing thought.

OoOoOo

“And the tree?” Kíli asked, turning to the blond-haired Grómi. As the ranking warrior overseeing the barracks, Grómi and his warriors were the ideal choice to obtain the towering pine they’d need.

“Aye, we’ll get it done,” Grómi said. “Where shall we hide it?”

Kíli rubbed his chin, but before he could decide, the riveting Tíra spoke up. “We do this all in one night, aye?”

Kíli and Ríkin both nodded. Kíli noted Ríkin’s sour expression as Tíra’s blue eyes latched onto Kíli and seemed reluctant to move away. Kíli winked at her again, and her smile grew. 

“The brow—” Tíra drew herself up short at her dam’s sudden coughing fit. Kíli hastily offered Tova a cup of water, but the matron waved that away with no explanation. “The plans,” Tíra continued, “call for use of the Hall of the Forefathers. Can we not simply store it there?”

Thekkin grunted, elbows upon knees where he sat. “It’s not in use,” he said. “But it’s been repaired.”

Good enough. Better that hall be used for the living instead of remaining a mausoleum-like tribute to the dead. “Everyone understands his assignment?” Kíli asked. 

Nods all around. 

Kíli felt a cocky grin spread across his lips. “Then let’s do this for our Helpers, aye? And for our people?”

A chorus of ayes shook the room. 

A short time later, all filed out his door but for Bilbo and Ríkin. Those two, he detained. The instant the door closed, Kíli rounded on the dwarf with a false smile. “There is much you neglected to say.” He directed a significant at Ríkin’s belly. It was scarcely noticeable, but something invisible pressed across Ríkin’s beard. 

Ríkin glanced down, scowled, and moved what must have been a Helper’s arm, tucking it beneath his beard. 

Kíli refrained from smirking, but by Durin, it was tempting. The Helpers’ most vocal detractor, smitten with one. “Tell me the rest,” Kíli said.

“Yer uncle commanded silence,” Ríkin said. 

Kíli folded arms before his chest. “I don't care about my uncle’s decree.” Ríkin and Bilbo both reacted to his blunt words, but Kíli refused to retract them. “We have fearful things stalking these Halls, and Thorin does not act. Helpers appear, and when it seems Uncle finally accepts them, they vanish, and he does nothing.” With each word, the anger that had lain dormant flared to new life. “He does not investigate, and he does not protect.”

Bilbo looked like he’d bitten into something sour. The hobbit had words he longed to voice, but they did not emerge. Kíli turned on Ríkin. 

That one relented. “Aye, ‘tis as ye say. But my prince, he has his reasons.” Ríkin withdrew another series of sketches from his tunic and plunked them down before Kíli and Bilbo. Both blanched at the pictures before them. “This…” Bilbo said. “Is this what I think it is?” 

Kíli face hardened. “The Nine,” he whispered. “It has to be.”

Ríkin’s head whipped towards Kíli. “The Ringwraiths?” Ríkin asked. 

“You didn’t know what they were?” Kíli asked. 

A sour look came over the gray-haired dwarf’s face. “Nay,” Ríkin said. “I had no name for them.” With a shake of his head, he added, “Your uncle is trying to protect us all.” 

“Should we even be discussing this?” Bilbo hissed with a furtive look around. “They can be anywhere, invisible.”

“Nay, they cannot,” Ríkin said, earning Kíli and Bilbo’s full attention. “Our Helpers, our _brownies,_ can see them. My lassie would have let me know if one neared.”

“You’ve seen them?” Bilbo interrupted, surprise upon his face.

Ríkin turned a disgruntled expression over his shoulder. “Not the one I’m wanting to see,” he muttered. Something must have transpired that Kíli failed to see, for the dwarf snorted and a small grin flashed. The dour dwarf actually appeared _happy._

Kíli’s lips quirked, but amusement proved short-lived as he returned to Ríkin’s revelations. “Uncle knows the Nine are here. Thorin knows what attacks himself and Fíli both.”

“Aye.”

Kíli drew one of the sheets to him, icy fingers crawling up his spine. Truly, the wraiths were terrible to behold. “They are spying on us, aren’t they? Searching for Daphne and Aleks?”

“Yes.” This time, it was Bilbo who spoke, and reluctantly at that. 

“You knew?” Kíli asked, incredulous. The serious look upon his friend’s face halted his further words. 

Bilbo’s thumbs tucked into his vest pockets. “We were instructed not to speak of this…”

“By whom?” Kíli interrupted.

Bilbo’s eyes narrowed upon him. “…and I would advise caution. Yes, we had warning. That they seek Mistress Hunt is beyond doubt, but I suspect they also search for answers. Sauron witnessed that Muriste female…”

“Who is Muriste?” Kíli burst, gratified to hear that for once, Ríkin was on his side as he echoed the question. Kíli couldn’t believe this. Why was he only hearing about all of this now? _You have some explaining to do, Uncle._

Bilbo muttered into his hand. Then dropping it, he straightened and met their gazes head-on. “The Old One who tossed orcs around like toys before Erebor’s gates during the Battle of Five Armies,” Bilbo informed him. Kíli immediately pictured what Bilbo referred to, for he’d seen it first-hand. 

Bilbo continued, “Of course Sauron would send the Nine. A creature so powerful would be of incredible interest to the Dark Lord, I should think. Thorin knows this. It’s why such talk is _dangerous._ Do you understand, Kíli?”

Kíli drummed his fingers upon the table before them. “I understand,” he said levelly. “But I also understand my people are suffering. My uncle and Fíli have both been attacked,” he pointed out impatiently, one arm waving. “We must do something.”

“We are,” a new voice intruded, one feminine and rich with impatience. “Daft men.” 

Kíli straightened, anger buried under a blanket of shock.

Ríkin smirked over his shoulder. “Yer under orders not to speak, my Pepper.”

“I can’t just stand here and let you talk yourselves into doing something stupid.” Soft footsteps neared, and Kíli felt a hand pat his cheek. “You’re our favorite, Kíli.”

_“Favorite?”_ Ríkin bristled while Kíli recovered from the surprise of hearing from a Helper and preened at the compliment. 

“Yes, my love, our favorite,” the Helper, Pepper, sang. Kíli laughed to see invisible fingers press against Ríkin’s beard in another pat. 

Kíli leaned back with a cocky grin, content to watch. 

“Now, Thorin had his reasons, and this isn’t forever. We brownies want a celebration. We want to see our dwarves happy again, and we expect you to help us make it happen.”

“Why not decorate overnight as you did before?” Kíli asked.

“Thorin believed it would cause suspicion. But if we present our feasts as being from the Shire, or a wise and concerned prince maybe dreams them up…”

Kíli hooted, slapping his knee. “Alright, my Helper.” He winked in her direction, ignoring Ríkin’s low growl of warning and possessive stance. “For now, you get your way. And your celebration.”


	10. Deck the Halls...

### Chapter 10

_25 October TA 2942_

Thorin stopped dead in his tracks. What in Durin’s name…? With wide eyes, he stared at green wreaths lining the hallway outside his door. Big, red bows adorned each, and their bodies were laden with everything from dried flowers to nuts, and glass beads to lace. The sharp, fresh scent of evergreen filled the air, a not-unpleasant smell by any means, but as Thorin’s slow walk resumed, then accelerated, dread and anger surged to life. 

_What are they thinking?_ Had the brownies not understood him? Had Angelica lied about their dedication? 

He rounded the corner at a jog, determined to assess the extent of the damage done, only to draw to a halt in the doorway of Bombur’s dining hall. There sat Bofur, an outlandishly altered form of his habitual hat upon his head. Red, it was, with fuzzy white trim and matching white puffs affixed to each winged tip. 

“And a merry morning to you, Thorin,” Bofur greeted with a wide grin, lifting his mug in a salute. Others throughout the hall did likewise, and Thorin was aghast to see a handful of miners at their favored table wearing hats of the same coloring as Bofur’s, though the miners’ hats were in a style more akin to something Gandalf would wear. Many toothy smiles were framed by white-matted beards, announcing that whatever it was they drank, it was not water, tea, or ale this morn.

Chin lowered and eyes hooded, Thorin made his way to Bofur’s side and fell onto the bench beside him. “Mahal.” 

Keen brown-green eyes met his own, somber beneath the air of jocularity. Bofur snatched a pitcher from the center of the table and poured him a mug of something white and creamy. 

“Milk?” Thorin asked with disdain as he accepted the cup. Was that what the miners had been drinking? It boggled the mind. Milk was for the invalid or dwarflings. He stared at the toymaker.

“Eggnog,” Bofur corrected with a waggle of the brows. “And don’t be asking me where Bombur came up with this, for he’s not telling.” Bofur sipped his own mug. “Grows on you, this _nog_ of his, though.”

Thorin tentatively sampled his own offering, brows lifting at the flavorful swallow of cream, nutmeg and bourbon. Despite himself, Thorin’s lips twitched. No wonder the beverage seemed popular. What dwarf wouldn’t be won over by a splash of bourbon? 

Before he could broach the topic foremost upon his mind, his friend said, “The decorations are a nice bit, too, I’ll warrant.” As Thorin stiffened, Bofur pointed at him with his mug. “It’s for Bilbo.” 

That quite literally stole Thorin’s thunder. “Bilbo?” 

Bofur nodded, taking another sip from his mug. “Our hobbit’s been homesick. Aye, and I’m sure you’ve noticed.” 

Thorin rubbed his brow. Why Bilbo stayed, he didn’t know. Bilbo did not speak iglishmêk or Khuzdul, and there was no safe way to ask in Common. The hobbit was always welcome in his Halls – Thorin wouldn’t deny him if Bilbo longed to settled in Erebor permanently – but the entire Company knew how Bilbo longed for Bag End. “Whose idea was this?” he asked.

“That would be our Kíli.”

“Kíli?” Thorin’s brows rose in surprise.

“Aye.” Bofur’s lips quirked. “Lad’s been busy. I’m guessing he wanted to surprise Bilbo, because I heard not a word of this being in the works. Nary one rumor. He must have hand-picked his assistants well.” 

Or, Thorin thought, his enterprising nephew had figured out that the brownies hadn’t departed and managed to recruit them to his cause. He drummed the fingers of one hand upon the wood tabletop. _Three years to go._ Three years and all the secrecy could be set aside at last. “Perhaps,” he said, “it’s time I have a chat with Kíli.” Little did he want to broach the subject, but Thorin needed to know if the brownies had disobeyed him.

“Talking again, are you?” Bofur asked around a wicked grin.

Thorin scowled, not deigning to dignify that with a response. Since he’d ordered the brownies into hiding, relations had been strained between himself and his youngest nephew. The lad refused to see sense. But by Durin, he’d never expected Kíli to prove so unyielding on the matter. He missed Kíli’s cheer. 

“I’d ask you to think long and hard before you chastise him, Thorin,” Bofur said in a casual voice, his hatted head tilted as he looked elsewhere. 

Thorin followed Bofur’s gaze. Smiles. Laughter. _Mahal._ He rubbed his face with his free hand. How long had it been since he’d seen such excitement upon his people’s faces? Thorin gestured to the room around them with the index finger of the hand holding his mug. “You know why this is a bad idea.”

Bofur sipped his eggnog before answering. “Aye, I know what it is you fear, and I’m appreciating your intentions.” Bofur turned sideways in his seat, body facing Thorin. “But our twins would not wish you to hobble our people, Thorin. They’d never wish the dread and apathy claiming these Halls to win. This plan of Kíli’s? It’s long since needed.”

“Needed?” Thorin asked, tapping fingers upon smooth sides of his mug. “Wreaths and bows?”

“It’s called fun, Thorin. You should try it sometime.” The twinkle in Bofur’s eye informed Thorin he was being teased, not a shocking thing from this particular dwarf. “Fun,” Bofur repeated, his gaze turning to the room’s other occupants. “It's not so frightening.” Then more seriously, “I’d be speaking up if I saw danger in it.” 

Thorin’s hand tightened about his mug. He took a swig of creamy eggnog, jaw tight. He’d expected Bofur to be the one who most understood his actions. Looking into Bofur’s eyes, the doubts Thorin had been fighting since that fateful night when he’d ordered the brownies to disappear returned. 

Bofur tugged upon one earlobe as he folded the other arm upon the table’s surface. “As you track down your nephew, be keeping your eyes open. Kíli has done much to aid his people this day. If you listen and watch, you’ll not fail to see it.”

Thorin inclined his head. Mayhap Bofur had the right of it. A sudden decision. It was past time to mend things with Kíli. He’d round up his nephew – perhaps both nephews for the sake of peace – and have them at his table for dinner this night. It had been far too long since the three had done so without others to act as a buffer. And as Bofur had suggested, he’d do some listening before he confronted Kíli about the decorations.

Another bob of the head, this one more decisive. Setting down his mug, Thorin exited the dining hall in search of his youngest nephew.

OoOoOo

The moment Thorin’s footsteps faded down the hallway, Kíli smirked and hefted the crate of decorations he’d saved especially for his uncle’s quarters. Balancing it upon one arm, he opened his door and tiptoed to the opposite direction, shooting wary glances over his shoulder.

At his uncle’s door, he nodded to the guard on duty. 

“Morning, Prince,” the warrior greeted, opening the door for him. Grizzled brows climbed as the guard got a look at Kíli’s burden. “Ye sure that’s a good idea?”

Kíli beamed at him, seizing the opportunity to spread the tale he’d told dozens of dwarves earlier that morning. “I’m sure you’ve noticed the decorations by now.”

“Aye, hard to miss,” the warrior said, one hand upon the pommel of his mace while the other scratched at his nose. “But the king, laddie…”

_I’ll drag you into this, Uncle, if I must do so with you kicking and screaming all the while._ Kíli’s grin turned razor-sharp. Leaning close conspiratorially, he said, “This was all Thorin’s idea.” As the guard’s eyes rounded, Kíli nodded his head somberly. “I think he’s attempting to place the credit elsewhere. Bashful about this entire business for some reason.” A significant look. “But he was adamant we celebrate Yule for his friend, Bilbo. You have met Bilbo, yes?”

“Oh, aye, I’ve seen the hobbit about,” the guard ventured. 

_Seen the hobbit about?_ It was time his people appreciated Bilbo, too, Kíli grumbled to himself. With a smile, he said, “Erebor would not have been won without him, though Bilbo is too shy to say as much. But seeing as he’s missing his home, the king thought it a grand idea for us all to celebrate Yule together. It is from the Shire, you know.”

“Is that a fact?” The warrior’s bushy brows rose again. His whistled low. “I’d heard about the halfling’s contribution—”

“Contribution?” Kíli interrupted with a dismissive laugh. “Couldn’t have done it without him, let me tell you.” Then without beating an eye, he added, _*And Thorin thought maybe we could lure our Helpers back at the same time.*_

The guard stiffened and looked both ways furtively before responding. _*How might that be?*_

“All Fool’s was their idea,” Kíli whispered, nodding when the dwarf reacted with surprise. “I think they wished us more happiness, and when we didn’t follow up on that…?” He shrugged his shoulders.

The guard stroked his beard, then signed, _*Will he seek them if they fail to return?*_

Unlikely. Not unless Kíli’s arm-twisting was successful. But he plastered another bright smile upon his face. “I believe so.” Kíli clapped him on the arm. 

“Yule, eh?” the guard asked as if chewing upon the word. His green eyes drifted to Kíli’s crate. “Ye need help with this, then?”

And let his uncle’s displeasure fall upon this guard? “No, I’d like to see to it myself.” _Make certain it’s as overdone as one of Bofur’s charred biscuits._

Not a second later, the youngest of the line of Durin plunked his crate down in the center of Thorin’s main room. A grin dancing about his lips, he pulled out beribboned garlands and began to decorate.

OoOoOo

Clove snickered behind one hand as Kíli set to work. She was tempted to assist him, but from the look upon his face, Kíli was determined to do this on his own. He was going to confront his uncle, of that she was certain.

How they owed this prince. She patted his shoulder, pleased to see his grin flash in return, and set about changing the linens upon Thorin’s bed. Red sheets. Perfect to liven things up, she thought with another, silent chortle.

OoOoOo

An hour passed. Then two.

But Kíli, Thorin found, was not easily located this day. Guards directed Thorin from one corner of Erebor to another, and at each location, Thorin was informed Kíli had been there much earlier in the morning. 

_Like chasing a ghost._ Aggravating, without doubt, but worse, as he accepted his people’s hails and listened to their conversations, his temper climbed to realize the decorations, Yule – all of it – were attributed to _him._ Eru help him. His dwarves were convinced this meant he intended to locate their Helpers, too. 

_Do I have you to thank for this, my sister-son?_ A tic claimed his left eye and the vein in his right temple pulsated. He longed to roar in frustration, but how could he when his people looked upon him with gratitude and thanked him, telling each other what a wise king they had? 

“Aye, we have a true Durin on the throne now.” 

_*Do ye think yer plan will work, my king? Will our Helpers return?*_

“’tis not often a king minds his people so well.”

_*Do ye plan to search for our Helpers now?*_

On and on, the comments flowed, fraying his patience until his jaw ached from biting back angry words. He could not utter a one of them, not when facing the new spark on visages that had too often been resigned and apathetic of late. The Ringwraiths were having their effect as Angelica had warned. He’d not realized how bad it had become until today as it lifted.

OoOoOo

“What’s this?”

Tíra beamed up at Prince Kíli’s entrance, butterflies filling her belly as she lifted her hand to show him her project. She’d been sitting on a cushion upon the floor all day with a squat crafting table before her. 

The object in her hand was a simple enough thing, a crystal pendant that unscrewed at the top to allow one to fill it with things they cherished. Each was uniquely filed and sanded to a fantastical, whimsical form suitable to a dwarrowmaid’s tastes. “Pepper told us how scents that bring back good memories can counter the fear that has attacked many,” she said. “These are for the females in the mountain.”

Kíli lifted it from her hand for a closer inspection, a pleased smile on his face. “Good idea. Something they can carry with them at all times.”

Tíra shrugged. “My dam’s idea,” she admitted. “We want to do the same for the men, too, but somehow I don’t think many will want to wear something so feminine.”

Kíli squatted beside her, dangling the chain between two fingers for her to reclaim. She blushed as their fingers met. “If it’s scents we are after,” he said, “a simple leather sachet on a cord would suffice.”

Tíra scrunched her nose in thought. “You’re right. Simple.” Then smiling up at him, “Know any leather workers who might be up to the task? We want them to be unique, all of them.”

He tweaked her nose. “As it happens, I do.”

A thought. “Did you do it?” At his curious look, she added, “Decorate your uncle’s quarters?”

He pressed one finger to his lips with a wink.

Tíra could not rip her eyes from the door long after he left. Then, fanning herself, she decided unequivocally - Kíli could charm a dragon from its hoard. One side of her mouth hiked upwards. If Smaug had been female, he’d have had her eating out of the palm of his hand in five minutes flat.

OoOoOo

Fíli walked down hallways, his pace slow and brow creased in thought. He smiled at each greeting and watched with care every nuance on people’s faces and postures. Overnight, Erebor had changed. Conversations sprang up where the day before guards had stood watch in stony silence. There was laughter. Erebor was embracing Yule wholeheartedly, and its people were all the better for it.

There were more fingers flying about the brownies than he’d seen in months, too. Time would tell, but he dared to hope this change might get through to Thorin. If his uncle would but ease up on his restrictions a bit, all would benefit. 

Like Thorin, Fíli wanted to be absolutely sure the Nine never got wind of their Faerie denizens, but Fíli also wanted more access to his own brownie. He’d take what he could get and be thankful for it, but he hungered for the simple luxury of a quiet talk. The night before, his lady had set her hand on his, and it had been all he could do not to haul her into his arms. He wanted the freedom to—

“Fíli!”

At his brother’s voice, Fíli halted and twisted about, lips twitching. “Why did you not tell me?” he demanded with a smile as Kíli jogged to his side. 

“Tell you?”

Fíli was not buying that innocent look. Not at all. He lifted one brow. “Yule?”

Kíli shrugged one shoulder, his jaw suddenly tight. “With everyone else so steeped in secrets, I thought it only fitting I have one as well.”

As Aleks was wont to say, _Hold up._ Fíli stopped, hand reaching for his brother’s arm. “Secrets?” What he read in his brother’s dark eyes told him this was no joking matter. Kíli knew something. What? Faerie? The Nazgûl? This wasn’t about Fíli hiding a budding romance from him. It was far more serious. 

But then Kíli shrugged with a bright smile, “So what do you think?”

Truthfully? Fíli thought his brother had stumbled upon knowledge Thorin and Radagast had forbidden him and now suffered at the lack of trust displayed, but Fíli could not speak such words. Not directly. “I think you are a genius. If you need my help, you’ve but to say the word.” As Kíli ascertained the sincerity of his words, his brother’s cheeks reddened. “And,” Fíli said softly, “our uncle is a mithril-headed fool not to heed you.” He waited for and held Kíli’s gaze as it snapped back to him. 

Brother stared at brother and a host of silent messages streamed between them. Fíli hoped Kíli would read his faith in him, and at last, Kíli inclined his head, his taut stance relaxing. 

“I also think someone has been avoiding him today,” Fíli added.

Kíli threw him a lop-sided grin. “Who could that be?”

A short look.

Kíli shook his head, his grin dimming. “Not avoiding.” More seriously, “Working.”

“Working?” Fíli asked, hands clasped behind his back. “Dare I ask what else you have up your sleeve?”

His brother gave him an enigmatic smile in return. Fíli was none-too reassured when his brother winked, clapped him on the shoulder, and departed. All without answering his question.

OoOoOo

By the end of the day, Thorin could well have torn his beard out in frustration. By Mahal, when had his nephew become as elusive as a brownie?

He opened his door with more force than needed but then paused upon his threshold. The temper that had begun to subside flamed anew, and the infernal tic once more twitched his eye as he stalked forward. Garlands and wreaths adorned his walls, many bearing the weight of small glass bulbs in his family’s colors of blue and mithril-silver. The comfortable cushions that had softened his chairs now sported fabric of green embellished with… 

He bent at the waist for a closer look, and his jaw unhinged. Were those… _elves_ …on his pillows? Thorin picked one up, incredulous, then with an aborted growl, he hurled it across the room. 

It was plain. He’d lost control of the situation. 

Raking a hand through his hair, he made his way to the table. A warm fire snapped within the hearth beyond it, and the scent of evergreen tickled his nose with every whiff. The table had been set with two plates, a platter of rich meats and cheeses, and a pitcher of his favored malt beer. 

Was all of this some kind of joke? Had the brownies…?

A knock preceded his nephew’s arrival. _Kíli._ Thorin’s brows rose. Kíli had not willingly sought him out since March. 

_Mahal._ He’d had little peace since the night he’d informed the brownie, Angelica, of his will. Not from without, and not from within. With Kíli for company, it was unlikely that would change this night.

Thorin crossed arms before his chest. “You have some explaining to do.”

Kíli never paused. His nephew smiled at him politely, claimed a plate, and began to fill it with choice cuts of meat and cheese. “Is that so?”

The tic returned anew. By Durin, did the lad not understand…? “Aye, it is so,” he said ominously. “What right did you have?”

Kíli straightened. “Decorating?”

“Using my name,” Thorin thundered. He waved one arm. “The entire mountain believes me responsible for—”

“You’re welcome.”

“Excuse me?” 

“I said you are welcome,” Kíli said in a calm voice that only made Thorin growl low in his throat. “This was needed, Uncle. Our people are hurting. When I heard of Bilbo’s Yule, it seemed the right thing to do.” 

Thorin’s anger developed a leak. He rubbed his face – it seemed to be all he’d done this day. It _could_ be innocent. The entire situation could be just as Kíli claimed. Thorin could not ask if Kíli had recruited the brownies, for Kíli was not supposed to know they yet dwelled within the mountain. Should Kíli remain ignorant, Thorin preferred to leave things be. 

_Tied by my own secrets,_ he thought sourly. 

That was when his sister-son claimed a seat, poured himself a glass of malt beer, and smirked up at him. Thorin must have stared at his nephew too long, nonplussed, for the next words from Kíli’s mouth were, “The great Thorin Oakenshield, afraid to dine with his nephew?”

OoOoOo

His mother was right.

Kíli was grateful he’d sought her advice before confronting Thorin. Looking into his uncle’s tired face, Kíli felt the resentment and anger he’d harbored for months subside. Though his bearing was one of pride, Thorin looked like he’d had no restful sleep in far too long. And while a part of Kíli thought it appropriate, he was grudgingly moved to sympathy.

His uncle stared at him for a moment. _Trying to figure out what prompted my change of heart,_ Kíli supposed. _Good luck with that,_ Kíli thought. He was not a Durin for nothing. 

At last, Thorin snorted, then laughed outright, the sound more burdened than Kíli had anticipated. “Dare I ask what I did to merit this honor?” Thorin asked him.

Kíli decided not to broach any topic of contention between them. Not yet. Instead, he turned guileless eyes upon his uncle. “Do I need a reason?”

Thorin dropped into the chair opposite him and claimed the pitcher with a short, possessive frown Kíli’s way. By the aroma wafting from Kíli’s glass, the pitcher contained Thorin’s favorite, a beverage he was loath to share. _Amâd’s doing,_ Kíli thought, for he’d asked her to arrange this dinner. 

“No,” Thorin answered in a gruff voice. Then voice softening, “You never need reason to seek me out, Kíli.” 

Lifting his eyes to his uncle’s, Kíli’s chest tightened at the emotion openly displayed there. “Uncle…” He knew not what to say. He’d missed this, spending time with the dwarf who stood as a father to him. 

Then Thorin wiped a hand down his face. “What have you done, Kíli?” Thorin’s hand dropped to the table. “And why have you done this?” Thorin’s fingers moved. _*The Helpers, Kíli.*_

So, the heart of the matter was laid bare between them. With elbows planted on the table, Kíli leaned forward. Perhaps this time Thorin would hear him. “You always taught me to do what I believed right.” His uncle’s face transitioned through a series of expressions, but before he could respond, Kíli added carefully, “Our friends are missed. Can you not understand what that is doing to our people?”

Based upon the flash of irritation across his face, his uncle did not like his words. Thorin took a drink of his malt beer, plainly delaying his answer. It was an encouraging sign in Kíli’s eyes, for he’d expected his uncle to lay into him for his presumptuous acts this day. Setting down his stein, Thorin leaned back in his seat with a sigh. “When did I lose your trust?”

Kíli straightened. “This is not a matter of—”

“Is it not?” Thorin asked. His uncle studied him from beneath his brows as he settled one elbow on the arm of his chair, his chin dipping to rest upon his fist. 

“Uncle,” Kíli said. “I think the world of you. I always have.”

Thorin’s chin left its perch, and his hand reached across the table to touch Kíli’s arm. “I have missed you,” he said in a rough voice, and Kíli’s chest once again tightened with emotion. Mahal, but Thorin had to make this harder, didn’t he? A small flicker of amusement eased the pressure in Kíli’s chest and throat. 

“Why do you not trust me in this?” Thorin asked.

OoOoOo

Thorin waited, eyes intent upon every expression to cross his nephew’s face. (Was that amusement sparking behind Kíli’s brown eyes? _Mahal._ Likely, he grumbled to himself.) Kíli drummed his fingers upon the arms of his chair, head dipped.

 _He’s grown,_ Thorin thought. Kíli was no longer the young dwarf who had insisted on a place beside him in the quest to reclaim their home. 

At last, Kíli’s eyes lifted, and Thorin steeled himself for the argument he knew was coming. “Why do you trust the rest of your people so little?”

Thorin’s hand fisted upon the table, but he refused to let anger rule. “You have not all the facts.”

“And whose fault is that?” Kíli snapped. His nephew stood, the chair scraping upon the ground as he shoved it from his path. He paced, body coiled with tension. _No, he’s not our dwarfling anymore._ A bittersweet realization. 

Thorin half-expected Kíli to storm from his quarters, but his nephew surprised him. With a determined look upon his face, Kíli reclaimed his seat. “I would aid you if you would but trust me.” When Thorin failed to respond, disappointment crossed Kíli’s face. 

_You are trusted, Sister-son._ Words Thorin dared not voice, for he could not share with Kíli his reasons. But his heart ached at the pain he saw in Kíli’s dark eyes.

Kíli sighed. “I don’t wish to argue with you anymore.”

“Then don’t.”

A disgruntled look flicked Thorin’s way as Kíli added cheese slices to his plate. “I suggest a truce.”

Truly? Thorin felt a burden slide from his shoulders. “A truce?” he asked in a mild tone of voice as he filled his own plate, selecting the spiced meats that pleased him best.

“Aye. You _do_ know what that means, yes?” A glint in Kíli’s eyes told Thorin he was once more being teased. 

“I seem to recall the term,” Thorin granted. Lips trembling with suppressed mirth, he added, “Though it’s never been a word of which I’ve been fond. What dwarf turns away from a good fight?”

A hunk of Kíli’s bread sailed through the air and hit him in the face. Thorin met Kíli’s look of challenge. _Irreverent dwarf._ By Mahal, he had missed him. A laugh broke free of Thorin’s constraint as he launched his own volley in return. The slab of meat slapped Kíli’s cheek and stayed there, stuck, for two seconds before peeling away to tumble down his nephew’s tunic. The sight was so ridiculous, Thorin could not but snort. 

Kíli’s eyes narrowed ominously. They stared at each other, each measuring the other, their lips quivering with mirth. In unison, they fell upon their platters, snatching food and throwing it at each other. In no time at all, the two were flinging everything in reach across the table and laughing hard enough that tears streamed down their bearded cheeks.

OoOoOo

That night marked the beginning. Thorin knew something had changed.

October ended, and November arrived. Day after day, as new touches were added to Erebor’s Yule celebration – an event Bilbo had told him would not conclude until the end of the year as counted by hobbits – Thorin felt the effects of Kíli’s actions ripple throughout the mountain…and himself. 

The Hall of the Forefathers was transformed overnight – he reluctantly decided not to ask questions though he was almost positive their brownies had something to do with it – into the single place every dwarf gravitated towards when not at work or sleeping. Boars and chickens roasted above big fire pits scattered throughout the room. Gay decorations, cozy chairs and tables, and the almost perpetual sound of music transformed a room meant to honor their ancestors into a place that felt like home the instant one cross its threshold. Its size mattered not. 

The towering tree, however, had taken some getting used to. A queer notion, to cut down a tree and transport it indoors, only to decorate it with gems, glass and lace as well as small lanterns. But the dwarflings and dwarrowmaids loved it, and each day, more gaily-wrapped presents materialized under its wide girth. Thorin had been told by more than one dwarf that Kíli had informed them the pretty packages were for one special day of gift-giving. And his nephew directed them to _him_ to find the answer as to when that might be. 

_Mayhap more than impudent._ Thorin offered up Bilbo without a qualm, sending his people to the hobbit for their answers. It was, after all, Bilbo’s holiday. Bilbo, he learned, in turn sent them all back to Kíli. What his nephew made of that, Thorin wasn’t certain, but Thorin thought Bilbo’s actions fitting. 

With answer or without, speculation abounded like a foam rising up in a shaken ale. Whispers spread through the mountain as dwarves anticipated the pinnacle of the holiday with excitement. 

Even Thorin got caught up in the merriment, letting down his guard and sitting amongst his people, talking and listening in an informal manner he’d not done since ascending to Erebor’s throne. In a way his sire never would have done, nor his grandsire. Kíli, he decided as the days passed, was brilliant. 

And perhaps their brownies, too, for he could not forget that they had urged him on this path all along.

OoOoOo

Thorin retired to his bedchamber, hair wet from bathing and muscles sore from his evening bout with Dwalin. Exhaust himself on the training field as he might, Thorin could not escape the dawning realization that he’d misjudged matters. Badly.

 _I am become Thranduil,_ he muttered to himself, displeased with the realization. Hadn’t he scorned the Elvenking for believing ignorance would protect the elf’s family? Yet here Thorin was, following the same path as he. _Mahal._ He dragged two hands down his face. The Elvenking had been wrong then. He remained wrong now. 

Thorin’s lips twitched with reluctant amusement. He’d underestimated his people’s stubbornness, he acknowledged with a snort, changing into his sleeping braies and sitting upon the bed. Dwarves did not let things go. They were temperamental, opinionated, and fiercely possessive. The Helpers were _theirs._ Thorin suspected if he shared that Erebor had already lost nine of them to the men of Dale, he’d have an outright mutiny on his hands. 

_Or Bard might have a couple hundred dwarves on his doorstep with a grievance to air._ Thorin snorted, enjoying the thought.

A knock upon the door preceded Dís’s entrance. His sister closed the door behind her, stormy gray-blue eyes watchful as she claimed the seat nearest the bed and folded her hands upon her lap. Her silky beard sparkled with gemstones, and her dark marriage braid descended from her right temple to dangle across her chest. Though Fíli and Kíli’s sire had died many decades past, he knew Dís would replait that braid every day until she left this life to join her Vili. 

_Stubborn,_ Thorin thought, the word this time bringing him satisfaction. Aye, they were all stubborn, and Thorin more than most. 

“We need to talk,” she said, her head cocking to one side. 

“Aye,” he said, unable to keep his conflicted emotions from leeching into his voice.

Dís frowned minutely, her beautiful face with its strong cheekbones and determined chin a balm to him. Of everyone in his life, he knew she would always, _always,_ be there to guard his flank. What she read in his face, he couldn’t say, but she reached out and grasped hold of his hand. “Still trying to carry the weight of the mountain by yourself, Brother-mine?”

“Always,” he said, the long-standing exchange lifting his spirits.

Blue-gray eyes twinkled. “I wish to hear your thoughts about your sister-sons,” she announced, leaning back in her seat. Her fingers moved. _*I would hear from you the full of it, Thorin. The quest. These Helpers our people miss so. This need for secrecy in our very bedchambers. Do you not trust me?*_

“Your sons,” he said, voice rough with affection, “do our line proud.” _*Where to start?*_

“I would ask you to share that with Kíli,” she said aloud. _*At the beginning, Brother. I cannot aid you if I do not understand what it is that is burdening you.*_

Thorin rubbed his knuckles, two of them bruised from his bout with Dwalin. Aleks had once reminded him of what truly mattered, not by his exemplary behavior but by his mistakes. How often had Thorin watched the young satyr deny himself the comfort and aid he needed out of fear or pride? _He learned,_ Thorin thought. 

Perhaps it was time Thorin did, too. With a sigh, he relented. That night, he told her all: his descent into dragon sickness, Sauron’s return and intent to wipe out the line of Durin, the One Ring, Faerie and their brownies. Alternating between Khuzdul and iglishmêk, he spoke long into the night. 

Through it all, Dís listened. She prodded him when his recital faltered, her face never betraying aught but her support. When he’d finished, his sister reached over and squeezed his hand. “I am proud of you.”

Thorin snorted in self-depreciation. “After my failures?” he asked harshly.

“It requires strength to confront your weaknesses, Thorin.” A gentle smile. “You stumbled, I’ll grant. But you did not fail.” He grumbled under his breath, and she tapped his chin, reclaiming his attention. _*Now I understand about the brownies.*_ A crooked smile, one so reminiscent of Kíli’s to Thorin’s mind. _*I think they are right about celebrating.*_

“We are dwarves, not elves,” Thorin said. 

Dís laughed at that, a rich, throaty sound. “Are we to be outdone by the pointy-ears?”

Thorin’s lips twitched with reluctant amusement. “Is that what we are doing?”

_*I think you should ask your brownies to follow the Nazgûl, Thorin. We have enemies we cannot see roaming our Halls. We must know everything they see, everything they do.*_

OoOoOo

His sister’s words followed him. Days passed, weeks, and Thorin made no decision. Nightly, he sat in the Hall of the Forefathers, sipping wassail, eggnog, or another Yule concoction from Bombur’s kitchens, and debated. Kíli’s words often came to mind. When, he wondered, had he begun to trust in wizards and their advice above his own kith and kin? When had the opinion of others supplanted faith in his people?

 _So much hinges on our success._ Radagast had not steered them wrong before. Nor had Gandalf. A counter thought: _Saruman the White falls into shadow._ Proof, Thorin mused, that wizards were not infallible. 

As winter’s grasp tightened about the mountain, Thorin debated. His mistakes, so many of them during the quest, replayed through his mind. The day of the Battle of Five Armies, he’d learned the painful lesson, hadn’t he? About how flawed his judgment could be. _Mahal._ He’d even drawn Orcrist on Bilbo and Aleks. 

He could not make a mistake in this. 

And so he delayed.


	11. Consequences

### Chapter 11

_27 November TA 2942_

Comfrey stamped her feet quietly as she followed Grómi across Erebor’s battlements. Each breath puffed out from the nostrils of the guards they passed, and Comfrey had taken to holding her coat over the lower half of her face to avoid betraying her presence with her own exhales. A brownie could shield much, but air was not within her abilities. She suspected no brownie had ever been able to do that. 

Grómi paused, his gloved hands swiping across the balustrade, sending snow falling far below onto the ground. Her dwarf, one she held in esteem much as an elder brother, peered into the night, seemingly impervious to the snow that fell upon his blond braids and full beard. 

Dwarves were blessed, she decided with a spurt of envy, puffing warmth onto her own frozen digits. 

Movement teased the corner of her eye. Comfrey inched between Grómi and the guard next to him for a better vantage point. What was…? 

Her eyes widened, for gliding up the sloped incline leading to Erebor’s doors were two Nazgûl. Bouncing on her feet to keep life in her limbs, she nibbled on her thumbnail. The three already plaguing Erebor had been conspicuous in their absence of late, something that had bothered Angelica quite a bit. Were these additions or had two departed for some nefarious purpose, only returning now? 

The ghastly pair drew near, keeping to the shadows thrown by the mountain. The first whiff of unease reached the ramparts, brushing Grómi and the guards on duty. Comfrey eased away as Grómi’s muscles bunched and the line of dwarves to either side of him suddenly took up a lot more space. 

_All-Father roast them._ Why did the creatures persist in plaguing the brownies’ dwarves? Her thumbnail disappeared between white teeth a second time. Thorin had forbidden them from following the creatures, but if they were moving in and out of Erebor, more than simple observation was afoot. They were reporting to their master, possibly putting plans into action. 

Comfrey grunted, unmindful of being heard as she tossed her long braid over her shoulder and left Grómi’s side at a jog. Orders or not, she wanted to know what these two were up to.

OoOoOo

Nutmeg was crossing one of the three bridges above the First Hall at Erebor’s gates, her feet swift and sure and her needles in hand as she knitted the hundredth or so red stocking of the day. Each must have the name of its recipient upon the cuff – Angelica was adamant on the point – but with none of the brownies able to read, it was a slow process of Angelica sketching each dwarf in the mountain, Pepper showing the page to her host-family, and the dwarves finally writing down the runes needed. To hasten things, Nutmeg, Clove, Hyssop, and Angelica had taken on the task of creating the stockings. It was Pepper’s sad task to embroider the names across the cuff under her host-family’s direction.

It was happenstance that her gaze wandered off the side of the bridge to the floor below, happenstance that she saw Comfrey trailing two of the Nazgûl in her heaviest coat. Nutmeg’s steps faltered, and she inched closer to the bridge’s edge, leery for it had no railings. Her knitting needles continued to fly as she watched the trio progress beneath her perch. 

What was Comfrey doing? Thorin had ordered… She inhaled sharply as three more of the fell creatures emerged from a side passageway. 

_Five of them._ Comfrey must have seen the two newcomers enter and followed. Needles accelerated until they clacked at a frenetic pace. Below, the five creatures walked in formation, one at their helm. Their path was set. They had a destination. 

_Thorin._

Nutmeg dropped her needles and ran.

OoOoOo

A hint of familiar dread and despair brushed by. Clove saw the way Fíli stiffened, and she hesitated. After that day Ríkin had brought the brownies’ ideas to Kíli, she’d begun to take hold of his hand at night, to touch him when she was near. She’d feared to do more, but now…

She clutched fistfuls of her skirts, tempted to kiss the strong line of his jaw. That would be admitting she lingered to watch him without informing him. Truly, it was an embarrassing impulse, but she hadn’t been able to deny herself. Tearing herself away, Clove rushed from the room, thankful for Fíli’s habit of leaving the door open for her. Her steps faltered. What she saw made her want to barricade herself and Fíli inside his chambers. 

Five Nazgûl stalked towards the king’s study, the malice pouring off of them more potent than anything she’d felt heretofore. Beyond them, Comfrey followed on tip-toes, and Nutmeg was swiftly catching up from behind her. Was Angelica still watching over the king? 

Hands clutching the needles and stocking she’d been working upon, she dared to dart into the hallway ahead of them, heart in throat as she bolted for the king’s study. They had to protect the king, for there was not a shred of doubt in her mind that this time, they meant to see him dead.

OoOoOo

Cicely was exiting Balin and Dwalin’s quarters when she saw them – a handful of Nazgûl prowling down _her_ dwarves’ Halls as if they owned them. Her hands tightened about the silverware she’d removed from Balin’s kitchens to polish this day.

The creatures passed without any awareness of her presence. The despair and horror pouring off of them brushed by with a strange ripple to her sense of _place,_ but she sniffed. She’d lost all of her children but one, and that one looked as likely to die on her as the others. She’d endured a marriage foisted upon her by an echnari with too much time on her hands, a marriage both loveless and cruel. These things? She feared them not at all. What could they do? Kill her? She snorted to herself as she watched them. Death held no terror for her. She rather thought of it as the only shining adventure left to her.

She felt a brief pang of pity for her daughter. Perhaps Hyssop’s fragile state was Cicely’s fault. But how could her daughter forget so quickly the lessons of Faerie? Security lay in authority and power, and her daughter’s choice of host-family had neither.

Following the Nazgûl with her eyes, it quickly grew apparent where they were headed. _They seek Thorin’s life again._

No. No, she’d not have it. She'd not see the young princes robbed of the dwarf who stood as a father to them. She’d not have her Balin grief-stricken by the loss of one of his dearest friends. There was not much good in the worlds that she could see, but in Balin, she’d found a gem worthy of her service. 

_Over my dead body._ They could not have Thorin, and that was that. 

Cicely set the spoons down next to Balin’s door. It wouldn’t do to have them jangling about, betraying her presence. Firming her chin, nose in the air, she hurried after the creatures.

OoOoOo

Angelica perched upon a side table, legs swishing beneath her skirts as they dangled off the edge. Her eyes danced over the king’s features instead of watching the umpteenth stocking taking shape between her needles.

Such a mixture of contradictions, the king. Stubborn and blind, yet generous and perceptive. _It is time to open your eyes, my king._ If he didn’t rescind his decree soon, Angelica wasn’t certain she’d be able to contain her impatience. 

Perhaps she’d sic Pepper on him. The younger brownie believed her actions with Stina had gone unnoticed, but Angelica had found the entire proceeding hilarious to behold. What Thorin didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him. 

With a silent sigh, she grimaced at the stocking in her hands. Suggesting stockings for each dwarf in Erebor had not been her finest idea. Oh, she well suspected they’d be received with gladness, but creating the dratted things was a monumental feat for seven brownies. 

_Six brownies,_ she corrected herself. Cicely viewed the entire venture as a waste of time and had opted not to assist. Truly, Angelica wondered if Cicely would ever recover from her past and embrace life again. She’d hoped… 

_Hopes and dreams and puppy-dog tails._ It had been less than a year. Cicely might yet surprise them, she thought.

Angelica supposed the brownies could have recruited Clove’s two weaver brothers, Steinur and Stígur, to the cause, but that would be bending Thorin’s command more than any of them were comfortable with. Too, the brothers were already being run ragged creating red, gold, and green fabrics for the hats, dresses, tunics and linens suddenly demanded by a mountain full of dwarves who’d caught Yule-fever.

Thorin’s head whipped up a split-second before she felt it – the dreaded Nazgûl oppression, a thick, cloying sensation she hadn't felt in months. She set her needles and stocking down upon the table, allowing them to pop into view as she padded on bare feet to the king’s side. Her fingers brushed his hand, alerting him to her presence. 

Thorin’s eyes jerked in her direction, then returned to his desk. 

The door opened, and both king and brownie startled. _Dori,_ Angelica identified as the fussy dwarf hurried into the room. What he said to his king, she didn’t know, but his fingers flew. Thorin set his quill down and stood, grabbing his heavy coat and throwing it over his shoulders. Orcrist was strapped to his waist. They managed three steps towards the door, unaware that three additional brownies – _four,_ she corrected with a gasp of surprise as Cicely joined them – surged into the room to surround the king. Nutmeg, she noticed, tried to shield Dori, too. 

Then, the Nazgûl unleashed their full, combined fury, and Angelica’s sense of _place_ shattered like dropped glass.

OoOoOo

Pepper and Hyssop padded down one of Erebor’s little-used byways. Hyssop’s needles whirled without pause, but Pepper was having to pay close attention to each pass of her embroidery needle. If she was remembering aright, the stocking in her hand would be Ori’s, and she wanted to take special care for him. Any member of Thorin’s Company deserved that treatment.

Hyssop muttered under her breath as a completed stocking was shoved in her work apron’s bulging pocket. Without pause, the younger brownie began another one. From Hyssop’s expression, Pepper deduced the younger brownie was as heartily sick of stockings as she. Pepper scrunched her nose, hefting the one she was working on in demonstration with a sad shake of her head. Hyssop’s lips twitched. 

_She’s improving,_ Pepper decided. The knowledge that Nyri and Nyrar held her in such esteem had been the boost Hyssop needed. Though the brownie was still weaker than Pepper liked, the improvement was a blessing. 

A nightmarish sledgehammer of black emotions slammed into her with no warning. She fell to her knees, cognizant that Hyssop fared no better beside her. Pepper gasped for breath, shaking her head in an attempt to dispel the onslaught as her sense of _place_ shivered in response to the walloping hit. 

_By the All-Father._ One hand lifted to the two, intertwined braids dangling from her right temple, the courtship and betrothal braids Ríkin plaited into her hair with silent intensity each morning, his determination overcoming the limitation of not being able to see what he was doing. The tangible reminder of her dwarf stabilized her, allowing her to breathe freely. Her head craned about towards the inhabited sections of Erebor where the emotional flood originated. _Thorin._

Pepper reached for Hyssop, and the younger brownie jerked, the whites of her eyes showing. “Thorin,” Hyssop whispered, echoing her surmise. The young brownie’s petrified eyes turned her way. “We have to help him.”

Pepper latched on to Hyssop’s arm as the other brownie made to stand. No. She couldn’t allow Hyssop to rush to Thorin’s rescue. Not only did she doubt they could reach Thorin in time to be of any help, but Hyssop’s face had bled of all color, leaving her as white as marble. 

_She won’t survive a direct assault._ Pepper wasn’t certain _she_ could withstand such a thing, not if _place_ was disturbed from so far away. While the brownies had been immune to previous attacks, Pepper feared this would prove to be altogether different. _Oh, Angelica, be careful._

How? How could the Nazgûl be so strong that she could feel the fury of their attack from so far away? None of the previous assaults had carried a fraction of this assault’s efficacy. 

Foolish question. They had, and that was the end it. “No.”

“No?” Hyssop wrenched her arm free. “It’s our duty.” Hyssop’s lips parted to say more, but movement spurred Pepper to clap a hand over Hyssop’s lips with a whispered, “Shh.” 

Hyssop followed her gaze, her thin frame quivering. Pepper didn’t feel much steadier herself. _Ríkin, you’d better be safe, too._ Her eyes scrutinized the mirror-lit passages around them, searching for the movement she’d spied. Was the emotional upheaval causing her to imagine things? 

“I don’t see anything,” Hyssop whispered.

Nor did Pepper. She was about to apologize for her jitters when a number of dark-skinned, foul-looking creatures came into view, scaling a nearby flight of stairs to Pepper’s level. Six. Nine. A dozen. Pepper stopped counting. Could these be the dreaded orcs? How could they have gained entrance into the dwarves’ kingdom? Thorin never allowed either door into Erebor to be left undefended.

The two brownies shared big-eyed glances before slinking across gritty stone floor out of the orcs’ path. Pepper tucked her body against one wall, squeezing between stone molding. To her left, Hyssop did the same.

Pepper held her breath as the first creatures hurried by, one coming so close the wind of his passage brushed her. Angelica had feared their ignorance of the Nazgûl’s actions would return to haunt them. Pepper watched the mob of orcs pass and suspected their worst fears were coming to pass.

OoOoOo

Thorin staggered as darkness crashed into him with all the force of a collapsing mountain. Dori fell to his knees at his side, but Thorin could not lift a finger to aid his friend as he struggled to endure the assault. A shadow stole across the room until it swallowed every inch of the study from wall to wall. Both sight and hearing faded, leeched away. Thorin found himself in a void, unable to do aught but stand as the vile avalanche of terror, despair, and malice pounded down upon him.

 _“Die,”_ he heard crooned in a grating, breathy voice.

Thorin faltered, unable to halt the barrage from overtaking his mind, robbing him of thought and strength. He feared in his soul. How to fight such a thing? 

Somehow, Orcrist’s hilt was in his hand, and the knowledge bolstered him. Gentle hands suddenly pressed against him, and small bodies surrounded him. A burst of scents filled the air: clove, nutmeg, and unfamiliar, spicy greens. _Mahal._ A thread of coherence returned. He was on his knees, he knew that. Air rasped into and out of his lungs beyond his control, his heart hammering madly. 

The scent of his favored beer came to him. Why would…? Fíli and Kíli came to mind – he’d shared a pint of the malt beer with his sister-sons just the night before amid much laughter. With the memory, the darkness eased back a hair. The danger remained, Thorin recognized it in the strain upon his body, but his mind began to once more be his own and not a craven thing outside his control. 

Besieged, he could only wait, clinging to memories the scents had brought to mind. Of one thing he was convinced before the attack ended – he owed Eru and Mahal an apology. He’d not have survived this had they not given him these brownies. 

It ended as abruptly as it had started. Thorin toppled forward on all fours. An invisible, slender body slumped against him before falling to his side as Thorin struggled to breathe, his chest aching from all he’d endured. Sight slowly returned, bringing with it first a view of his hands curled against the carpet-covered floor. 

Then he saw Dori splayed upon the ground at his side. Thorin stiffened. Dori was not moving.

OoOoOo

Tova had been approaching the king’s study, determined to speak with him about their brownies, when it struck – a wave of darkness so encompassing that she staggered, slumping against the nearest wall. Her knees weakened, and the inexplicable horror set her heart to thumping. _The Nazgûl,_ a distant part of her mind provided as she slid inexorably to the floor. Her son had warned them, hadn’t he, how serious a matter their presence was? But he’d failed to convey just how terrible a brush with them might be.

The instinctive knowledge of danger escalated, and Tova’s hand dropped to the hilt of her long knife. The blade was a gift from her Dalkin upon the eve before their marriage. His face filled her mind, heartening her. Her grumpy lover would be wroth with this event, she was sure. Images of the coddling she could expect should she survive curved her lips into a weak smile. 

The cloying morass persisted until she longed to scream. Tova inched closer to the wall, the joyous peal of the bells in her beard sudden pinpricks of light that countered the dark. Tova forced her mind away from the emotions ravaging her, bringing to mind the faces of her loved ones, immersing herself in the joy they brought.

Time lost meaning. There was only the battle to endure, and endure she was determined to do. These creatures would not win. She wouldn’t allow them any victory. 

The feelings faded as abruptly as they’d come, leaving her wet with perspiration and trembling as if she’d sprinted across Arda. Tova took her first deep breath. A dozen yards ahead, a door banged open. Prince Fíli burst from a room, stumbling towards... 

_The king._ Strength returned to Tova’s wobbly legs. Climbing to her feet, she followed Fíli, her steps accelerating as her fear grew. Not once did her hand loosen its grip upon her long knife. If the Nazgûl thought they could take Erebor’s king, evil sorcery or not, they had another thing coming.

OoOoOo

Grómi ordered the barracks emptied as soon as the fearful attack reached him. _Eru, Mahal, and all the Valar._ What sorcery was this? His lips flattened as he witnessed the vile magic’s spread by the effect it had upon his people. The tainted feeling of evil caused Grómi’s flesh to recoil, but he stood firm, lifting his voice to command additional warriors into position around Erebor’s gates.

Well did he know the source of the attack came from the royal wing, likely an assault upon their king and his heir. Dwalin’s protocols regulated his response, even though the captain had departed Erebor with Prince Kíli early in the day and had yet to return. Grómi would guard this position in case of a simultaneous, external invasion. He trusted that Ríkin even now led another contingent of guards to the king.

OoOoOo

A diversion.

That’s what the Nazgûl assault was. Oh, Pepper didn’t doubt that the monsters intended to see Thorin and his heirs dead, but as hallway after hallway revealed to be abandoned, the truth became clear. The attack had sent families into the safety of their homes and the warriors towards the perceived danger. The orcs progressed swiftly, their passage unhindered and unnoticed. The Nazgûl had planned this perfectly. 

Pepper and Hyssop followed the orcs on silent feet, utilizing every skill their decades in Faerie had taught them. The orcs never slowed. They knew exactly where they were headed, and at first, she frantically searched for a clue as to what they were about. The Nazgûl wouldn’t cause the dwarves to rally to Thorin’s side if they intended the orcs to kill him. So who…?

Pepper almost tripped. Hadn’t the brownies noticed? Hadn’t they wondered before? Turning fearful eyes upon Hyssop, Pepper mouthed, “Bofur.”

OoOoOo

Fíli tore down the hall. The strength of the attack he’d just felt had spread far – a contingent of armed guards even now clattered in the distance, rushing down the long hallway towards him with Ríkin at their helm.

He didn’t bother to wait for them, and he barely registered Ríkin’s dam, Tova, running right behind him. _Uncle._ Fear ruled him, fear that the prophecy from Earth Realm might be coming true, that destiny would have its way and steal his uncle now after he’d survived his doom on the battlefield a year before. Fíli crashed through the study door, unmindful that wood splintered as the door collided with the adjacent wall. 

_Alive._ His knees weakened. “Uncle,” he managed, relief loosening the sword he didn’t remember drawing from his grip. It clattered to the floor. His gaze took in the way Thorin panted, his posture betraying horrible weakness. And to his side… 

_Mahal, no._ “Dori.”

OoOoOo

Thorin’s head reared up as his nephew burst through the door, barely noticing the matron, Tova, behind him. Thorin almost melted with the strength of his relief. For a moment, he’d feared the Ringwraths had next targeted his—

 _Kíli. Mahal, not him._ Fear surged anew. “Kíli.”

Fíli shook his head as he hurried to Dori’s side and pressed fingers to his throat. Fíli discovered what Thorin already had, and his shoulders slumped with relief. Dori hadn’t been slain. “He left this morning,” his nephew said. “Dwalin and Nori are with him.”

Relief turned Thorin’s words harsh. “Without informing me?”

The barest smile ghosted across his heir’s lips. “He intended you not to be aware of his departure.” Fíli must have read the incredulousness upon his face, for he continued, “A young dwarrowmaid captured his attention.” Fíli’s eyes sidled to the matron with a deeper trace of amusement. “He’s in search of a suitable gift to gain her attention. One of the men of Dale has a reputation for carving trinket boxes.”

“There was no craftsman in Erebor suitable?” The words emerged automatically. Little did he care who crafted the cursed thing.

“The point was to keep this from you, Uncle.” Fíli’s lips flattened. “For which I am grateful.”

_Agreed._

Then Fíli signed, _*Brownies were here?*_

Regret burned in Thorin’s breast. He’d not have wished the brownies – especially their youngling, should she be here – to suffer in his place. It sat ill with him that he’d had no choice in the matter. He could not have ordered the brownies away with the Nazgûl bearing down upon him. 

And…Erebor needed its king. Now more than ever with the Dark Lord returned. Fíli would lead in Thorin’s stead if it came to that, and lead well, Thorin was sure, but he’d not wish the burden of kingship to pass to Fíli during these perilous times. 

Ríkin and a host of bearded dwarves burst into the room just as Thorin thought he detected a low sound. “My king—”

Thorin’s hand flashed. “Make the hallway secure.”

“Done,” Ríkin growled. Thorin heard the junior captain bark his orders. Heavily booted feet took up position at the ruined door, some inside the room but most in the hallway. “How can we assist?”

Knowing the news was not going to be well received, Thorin directed to both his heir and the gray-haired warrior, _*Brownies defended me. At least one collapsed at my feet. I know not if they live.*_ Mahal, but he felt helpless. Ríkin’s swift inhale reminded him of the closeness the warrior had developed with the brownie, Pepper. _Before I intervened._ Guilt gnawed at his gut. The brownie might be among the fallen, and Ríkin never would have known why she’d vanished from his life. 

Thorin reached out, then froze. To search the brownies for injuries would betray them, yet… 

A sound broke the silence. Thorin was not the only dwarf to reach for his weapon. Something dragged against the floor. Ríkin eased closer, his steps careful, and placed himself between the noise and Fíli. A quick glance from son to mother, and Tova sidled to Ríkin’s side, her posture one of confidence as she held her long knife at the ready. 

Thorin listened more intently, knowing the others did the same by their postures.

The soft rasp returned, inching ever nearer to Thorin’s heir. Muscles along Thorin’s spine tightened in growing increments. Some Nazgûl trick? Or one of the brownies? Tova signed, _*Clove?*_ an instant before a weak sob reached them. So low it only tickled the ears, a female moaned, _“Fíli.”_

In a flash, Fíli was past the two protectors, hands sweeping the floor in search of the source of that cry. Thorin bit back words of protest. If a Nazgûl remained, the damage was done. Fíli dropped to a seat upon the floor and drew the invisible brownie to him. The expression that crossed Fíli’s face caused Thorin’s belly to twist with dismay. 

“Fíli?” Thorin asked softly, his gaze flicking around the room.

“Alive,” Fíli said shortly. Then in a harder voice, “I will not allow her to die, Uncle. Not even to keep their existence from the Dark Lord. Mahal. She’s freezing.” Angry, pale eyes burned up at him as his blond nephew ran one hand across the brownie in search of answers. “This is my brownie.”

“Yours?” Thorin asked, taken aback by Fíli’s hard tone.

“She protected me before, Uncle. She watched out for Kíli, too.” Fíli’s grip turned sheltering and…he pressed a kiss to the female’s forehead? 

What in Durin’s…? No, he had no time for that now. Thorin pinched the bridge of his nose. And no, his people could not turn their backs upon these stubborn, aggravating, and… His irritated gave way, and he tacked on, _and frustratingly generous people._ His gaze turned to Tova, meeting the challenging look upon her face. Rikin appeared a split-second from joining Thorin’s heir, his good eye scanning the floor with fury and alarm.

Thorin growled audibly and raked a hand through his hair.

“Gone,” the brownie in his nephew’s grasp wheezed, and Thorin froze. 

Fíli’s hand paused. “What was that?”

“The creatures. They left. Think the attack drained them,” she said, and that fast, Ríkin and Tova were on the ground, scouring every inch for sign of brownies. 

“You are certain?” Thorin demanded. There could be no room for error.

“Y-yes, Thorin,” she said, teeth beginning to chatter. 

Ríkin barked over his shoulder, “Ormur, Hlein, Nipar, hurry. We may have Helpers in need of aid.”

Thorin scowled at Ríkin, but every guard to hear Ríkin’s command bristled with outrage, concern and anger growing among them. _Mahal._ It was too late to halt this. “Do as he says.”

The three rushed over, fanning out to spread the search radius. 

Fíli spoke over the grumbles filling the room, “She’s truly freezing, Uncle. As if she’s been outside the mountain.” 

“I’m fairly certain you hold the brownie, Clove, my prince,” Tova said.

“Clove?” Fíli pounced, his grip upon the brownie tightening and his pale eyes intent.

“Yes,” the invisible female chattered, her voice so distorted the word was scarcely identifiable. 

Thorin bent down to lend his aid in searching the floor. Tova exclaimed, clearly having found a brownie. “Not our Pepper,” she told her son. 

“Pepper isn’t h-here,” Clove managed. 

“Not here?” Ríkin demanded.

“Safe,” Clove said. “She and Hyssop…at the house.”

Thorin’s eyes narrowed. The statement meant something to Ríkin, and unless he was mistaken, his junior captain sported a new bracelet about his wrist. “You disobey me?” he growled.

Ríkin’s eye focused upon him, his posture rigid. “Nay, my king. Nor did my lassie.”

“He s-s-stumbled upon her,” Clove offered. “Acc— Accident.”

A twitch of Ríkin’s brow told Thorin otherwise, but Thorin dismissed the matter with a growl. He’d question the dwarf and brownies both later. For now, he finished searching the room. “I can find no others.”

“Aye, there’s no more of them, my king,” one of the other warriors said. 

Thorin’s relief was short-lived as he squatted by Tova. The dwarrowdam’s alarm had him reaching out to touch the brownie. As Fíli had said, the little female was ice cold. “By Durin,” he breathed. “What could have happened?”

Tova swallowed. “Withdrawing,” she labeled, and Thorin cursed silently, recognizing the term from Angelica’s instruction. 

“What is that?” Fíli asked, agitated.

“’tis dangerous?” Ríkin turned to his mother.

Tova nodded shortly. “Your Pepper told me,” she addressed to her son, “brownies must have a sense of _place._ Without it, they Withdraw.” Her gaze slid to Thorin’s. “And die.”

“Y-you have C-Cicely. The others fled for their…families,” Clove’s voice came again. “Sh-she doesn’t look good, Thorin. Please, you must send for Balin.”

Rikin did not wait. “Ormur,” he barked. “Find Balin. Quickly.”

“Aye,” the red-headed dwarf said before racing from the room.

OoOoOo

Bilbo sat upon his chair, inkpot tipped over upon the desk’s surface and parchment ruined. A female no bigger than he shuddered and clenched him about the middle, her face buried in his neck and feet tucked up on his thigh. The brief glimpse he’d had of her scarred face had shown him wide-eyed terror.

The suddenness of her appearance held him frozen for a few seconds, but he cleared his throat, put the quill down, and gingerly closed his arms around her. That it was a brownie was without doubt, but why would one seek him out? 

“There, there,” he said, wracking his brain for distant memories of what his mother might say when he’d been distraught. “Chin up. All will work itself out.” As she continued to shake, he frowned. That had not worked very well, had it?

OoOoOo

The battlements were in an uproar, and that was no exaggeration. Grómi had been sharing an observation with the guards closest to himself when the door onto the catwalk had blown open of its own accord, and an invisible force had shoved its way past dwarf after dwarf before throwing itself into his embrace like a dwarfling seeking its mother’s lap. He’d been stunned, he had, but he’d quickly realized there was only one explanation – the Helpers had returned as hoped with the Yule celebration, and one now ran to him for protection.

Had the Helper felt the attack upon their king? A deeper scowl. Or had she been the focus of the attack?

He held the cold female to him, worry compressing his brows. Grómi drew off his cloak, wrapping it around her. “Helper,” he said shortly to his warriors. Bushy brows all around flew high, and a handful of the dwarves closest to him offered up their own cloaks. Grómi added it to the barrier between the trembling lass and the freezing air. 

Once he was satisfied she was covered, he raised his voice. “Alright lads, stop the chatter. Ye remember our king’s decree.” A motley group, his fellows, but they all nodded their bearded heads. Almost in unison, it was. 

Perhaps, he thought wryly, they’d been spending a mite too much time together. 

He’d pondered these last months about the Helper who’d tended to them before vanishing all mysterious-like. He’d thought long on the matter and realized the only reason the king could have to quiet all talk about the Helpers was for safety. Erebor’s or the Helper’s, Grómi hadn’t yet worked out, but he trusted the king. 

For this reason, he silently signaled his troops back to business. No gawking at the knowledge a Helper shared the wall with them. No craning their necks to watch him carrying an armful of cloak-covered nothing. 

Grómi manned his station, eyes narrowed and arms full of a quaking lassie, and waited for word of his king.

OoOoOo

Húni paced before the hearth he’d stoked higher as his wife, Sigga, held their auburn-haired Helper to her side. “Does she need more blankets, my treasure?”

Sigga hummed under her breath, her round face breaking into a beautiful smile as their son, Hori, materialized with a blanket ere she could answer. Sigga accepted the blanket and tugged it around their Helper. 

“I knew she hadn’t left us,” Hori said, his strong features set into disapproval. 

Aye, so the warrior-in-training had told him all along. Sigga hid a smirk at his beseeching look, informing him he was on his own. Though he was relieved their Helper was safe, Húni recognized he’d be eating crow this night. 

His son’s lips twitched, his already-full beard shaking with the effort not to laugh. 

Húni looked at him sourly. Aye. Crow was definitely on the menu this night.

OoOoOo

“How about you? Who should we summon for you?” Fíli murmured into his brownie’s ear with reluctance. He did not care for the thought that his brownie was somehow linked to other dwarves, but if this Withdrawing was a danger to her, by Durin he’d swallow his jealousy and pride and haul the dwarves needed to his lady’s side.

Clove shivered, and he hugged her tighter, worried about the cold that still dominated her body. What had the Nazgûl done to her? What had they done to all of the brownies? 

She sighed softly, fingers plucking at the sleeve of his tunic. “I disobeyed Yew.” 

Thorin’s head whipped around, and he knelt beside them, face grave. “Your eldest,” he said.

Fíli felt Clove’s head nod yes where it rested against his chest. “She forbade us all from choosing any royalty for host-family. Since you are our rulers, it was only fair we take turns looking after you.”

Thorin seated himself beside them with a low grunt. Fíli frowned, for his uncle’s face was drawn with exhaustion. Thorin had waged a difficult war against the enemy this day. “Show yourself,” Thorin said with impatience. “I cannot talk to one hiding.”

A part of Fíli went very still inside. Fierce anticipation filled him to think that he might finally catch a glimpse of the brownie who’d captured his affections. 

Soft, sable curls popped into sight, spilling over his chest. Pale ears, long and pointed, extended to the crown of her head. The body he held was slender – no surprise there – and wearing a simple woolen dress topped with a serviceable apron. Its tie, a large bow that rested upon the small of her back, made him want to smile. She hugged Fíli tighter, and he realized she was nervous. 

The right side of his mouth hiked upwards. Nervousness was good, wasn’t it? A sign she cared about his opinion.

“How did you disobey?” Thorin asked.

Small fingers again plucked at Fíli’s sleeve, and a horrible suspicion reared its head. “You bonded with Kíli,” he said, his voice suddenly tight. 

Clove jerked back, and the most beautiful brown eyes he’d ever beheld stared up at him. Mahal, but she was exquisite. A heart-shaped face, high cheekbones, and full lips had never combined in such a perfect way before, he was sure. The tips of her ears and her cheeks flushed a bright red as she blurted, “Are you daft?”

Fíli’s hands twisted about the fabric of her dress as her meaning hit him. She looked away in a hurry, but Fíli stared at the top of her head, elated. 

“He is my heir,” Thorin said, his voice heavy with disapproval. Fíli turned to find Thorin’s face devoid of any amusement as he stared first at Clove, then Fíli, a warning in his gray eyes.

Fíli’s hands clenched about the fistfuls of fabric he held. 

“I know,” Clove said, the sorrow in her voice igniting a spark of anger in him. 

“He will wed a dwarrowmaid and sire the future king of Erebor.”

“I know,” she said again. 

Thorin weighed her words, nodding slowly. 

Fíli slowly released the fabric he’d bunched and rubbed Clove’s back, his mind racing. Thorin was wrong. A dwarf fixed his attentions on a female but once in his life. There was no dwarrowmaid in Fíli’s future. Whether Thorin liked it or not, it was too late.

OoOoOo

Pepper plastered herself against a stone wall as an orc hefted the unconscious Bofur over his shoulder and stomped past her, departing the home Bofur shared with his cousin, Bifur. Bifur…didn’t look very good. The clubbing over the head both had taken had left Bifur splayed upon his belly on the floor, the ax blade embedded in his forehead escaping collision with the ground by bare inches.

 _He’s breathing,_ she assured herself, hands fidgeting with her embroidery needle. 

The orcs filed out of the home, and one hesitated, sneering at Bifur. Pepper froze, hand fisting about the needle. Should she…?

Hyssop darted from the room, creating a ruckus in a bedroom, and the orcs rushed off. _Not willing to risk discovery._ By the All-Father. Hyssop’s quick thinking had likely saved Bifur’s life. 

Pepper tiptoed to the door. The orcs were jogging away. Hyssop moved to pass her, but Pepper stopped her. At Hyssop’s questioning look, Pepper asked in a whisper, “What do you believe the chances are that these orcs don’t have a way out of the mountain?”

Hyssop’s head whipped in the direction of Erebor’s main gates, then back around. “None,” she said at last.

That was Pepper’s conclusion, too. “It’s snowing out there,” she growled. Eyes alighting on the fallen coat tree, she grabbed one of thick fur and bundled it under one arm. Her gaze landed upon Bifur. “Stay with him, Hyssop.”

“No.”

Pepper’s glare collided with Hyssop’s, neither relenting. “Hyssop—”

“I’m coming with you.”

“Hyssop,” Pepper tried again.

The other brownie snatched a second fur coat from the floor. “You are wasting time.” Without another word, Hyssop raced off after the orcs.

Pepper growled aloud, then stamped one foot. “Pig-headed, obstinate, willful…” A veritable litany of appropriate descriptors flooded her mind. 

Then a new thought interrupted her silent tirade. She snipped a length of red yarn from her work apron and tied it around Bifur’s wrist. Then, frantically hurrying through the cousins’ house, she tore the place apart in search off… _Perfect!_

Snatching Bofur’s battered hat from his clothes chest, she forced a hole into it using her needle and tied it to the yarn ribbon. With any luck, someone would figure out their Helpers were following Bofur.

Pepper then bolted from the house after Hyssop. 

She had no excuse but panic for her failure to realize another key step she should have taken. As it was, her brain did not speak up with the obvious until she and Hyssop had followed the orcs out of the main passageways and into Erebor’s darkening bowels. How long until the sun set and left them in pitch-black darkness? 

_Fool,_ she castigated herself again. The dwarves would search Erebor for Bofur at some point, and she knew Ríkin would come for her, too, especially when he heard about the yarn around Bifur’s wrist. What an _intelligent_ brownie would have done from the start, she berated herself with a huff, was to leave markers so that the dwarves could follow. 

Her hands delved into her heavily-laden apron pockets, and inspiration struck. Pepper wasn’t at all sure how well the orcs could see in the dark. The sputtering torches they ignited seemed to say not perfectly, but she hated to take risks with Bofur’s life on the line. With a hand to Hyssop’s arm to warn her, Pepper lagged behind until the orcs were a distance ahead of her. Then she dropped one of the completed stockings in the center of the road they traversed. 

_Let this work. Please, All-Father. Eru. Let this work._

And so it went. The sun set, taking with it all light but that of the orcs’ torches a distance ahead of them. At every major intersection, a stocking was deposited to mark their route. Their progress took them higher and higher into the mountain’s spire until Pepper knew that without those stockings, she’d be hopelessly lost. Stairs and bridges became a nightmare – the brownies had to slow and feel their way, only the memory of what they’d seen and a low glow in the distance to guide them. 

A dark, formless forever later, both brownies ran out of the bright red markers. From that point on, the two resorted to snipping more yarn, tying little bows and placing them in places they hoped the dwarves would find. 

Pepper’s thighs and calves burned from the strenuous climb up the hundreds upon hundreds of stairs they scaled. Their journey spanned hours. More. It seemed they would never halt when suddenly, their destination came into view. 

“Oh, no,” Hyssop whispered into her ear. 

Pepper nodded numbly. The orcs had bored a tunnel into the mountain from outside, creating for themselves an access point the dwarves knew nothing about. 

_We should have been following the Nazgûl._ Pepper slicked a sweat-dampened curl behind one ear, her heart sinking. _We should have convinced Thorin._

Wind moaned down the new shaft, bringing with it winter’s cold, biting chill. Pepper hugged the fur coat to her chest. The orcs never hesitated. With much growling in their grating tongue, they filed through the narrow, rough-hewn passage in single-file. 

Taking Bofur with them. And the light.

_All-Father save us._ With so much of Erebor uninhabited, years could pass before the dwarves discovered this tunnel. If they didn’t find the stockings, if she hadn’t placed the first one soon enough… The ramifications bit deeper than the frigid air. The orcs had discovered a chink in the dwarves’ defenses, and Pepper had no idea what to do about it. 

The brownies huddled together as the last of the orcs vanished into the tunnel. Pepper looked at Hyssop’s shadow, wishing she could see her eyes. Wishing there was a way to order her back. But with the orcs’ departure went their only light source. Attempting to navigate Erebor’s stairs and bridges without that would be tantamount to suicide. 

Hyssop’s hand groped for and found hers. Pepper hung her head. Then with a bracing inhale, she donned the coat, snorting sadly to feel it brushing the floor to either side of her. It was heavier than anything she’d ever worn before. Firming her shoulders, she headed for the crude tunnel’s faint glow. If she and Hyssop could but gain one private minute with Bofur, the two of them could cloak him and steal him back. 

A new worry. With the snowy conditions outside, the orcs’ tracks would be covered swiftly. Wouldn’t they? Her hand lifted to her betrothal braid. She just didn’t know. Faerie had no winter. The echnari had never tolerated it but in small areas for their perverse amusement, and Pepper had never been misfortunate enough to be a victim of one of those games. 

She took one hesitant step forward, then two. 

Ríkin, Pepper thought with a touch of hysteria, was not going to be pleased.


	12. Missing

### Chapter 12

The taut muscles all along Ríkin’s neck and back unclenched not a whit when he spotted Dwalin making his way into the study, both he and the younger prince dusted with snow. Ríkin strode to his superior’s side. The sooner he updated Dwalin, the sooner he could set about assuring himself his Pepper was safe. 

“What in Durin’s name happened here?” Dwalin demanded of him. 

Ríkin’s right hand clenched about his halberd, the impatience riding him gaining spurs such as men used and a whip. “The king was attacked,” he informed Dwalin in a hard tone only loud enough to reach Dwalin’s and Kíli’s ears. 

“Nazgûl?” Kíli asked.

Ríkin’s gazes swept the room. Clove had promised to light a candle near the doorway should any of the fell creatures draw near. Thus far, it remained unlit. “Aye, ye’ve the right of it. Five of them, or so yer brother’s brownie says.”

“My brother’s…?” Kíli asked, head jerked up an instant before his lips quirked. “So _that’s_ who she is,” he murmured.

“Any other problems?” Dwalin interrupted, voice gruff.

Ríkin ignored the prince’s babblings – he had not the time to make sense of them – and said, “The brownies have only seen five of the creatures to date. Thorin has three of the lassies searching for them, for we know not where they went once the attack ended. He’s ordered all of Erebor’s residents summoned.”

“All?” Dwalin’s bushy brows climbed high. 

“Aye, all.” Ríkin’s gaze rested upon Kíli, knowing the prince, at least, would well understand. “The king has much he wishes to disclose to his people.”

“And all it took was a full-out attack,” Kíli said with a short shake of the head.

OoOoOo

With Dwalin back in charge, Ríkin joined those spreading the word of their king’s summons to the inhabited towns in Erebor. Ríkin methodically knocked upon the doors along the street as he made his way to his own home, his mind consumed with thoughts and worries for his Pepper.

She hadn’t been in the room with the king. Her fate could not possibly be that of the brownie, Cicely, who failed to recover even with Balin patting her hand as he kept vigil by her bedside.. 

The instant Ríkin reached home, he burst through the door. He cared not for candles or the Nine. His only thought was to assure himself his Pepper was well. “Lassie? Pepper?” Eikin and Thekkin rose from their seats, questions falling from their lips. Ríkin lifted a hand in a bid for silence. 

Quick steps carried him to his room, and he thrust open the door. All was still. All was as he’d left… The thought died as he spotted a new blanket upon the bed. A gift, he realized, from his Pepper. Always showing her affection, his lassie. Since the night he’d trapped her, she’d bestowed many such gifts upon him, showing him her heart since she could not speak it. A closer inspection of the gift revealed she’d attempted to border it in traditional Khuzdul runes. When had she found the time for this? 

Ríkin’s free hand fingered the soft material. His brownie…didn’t understand the runes. That was plain. ‘twas a mess, a mishmash of runes he hoped were supposed to be strength, valor, fealty, and honor. What they said in actuality was a different matter. The hard, leading edge to valor was looped, turning it into virility, and strength lacked a vital tilde, turning it into cowardice. ‘twas a good thing he knew the lassie well enough to discern her intent, for the blanket was a fair challenge to plait the last braid into her hair – that of marriage – forthwith and lock the twain of them in his bedchamber to disprove the claim. 

With a gusty sigh, he flexed his shoulders. She was not here. His hand tightened about his halberd spasmodically. _By Durin, my Pepper. I should not have let you leave my side._ Logic said like as not she remained at the brownies’ house, but the fear curdling his gut cared naught for logic. 

He wasted time. With a last hard look at the blanket, one he’d be teasing her about later, he returned to his brothers. “Thorin has called every dwarf in Erebor to the Hall of the Forefathers,” he informed them. 

“The attack,” Eikin said.

“Aye,” Ríkin responded with a tight nod. “I’ve a favor to be asking of ye both.”

Thekkin paused from collecting the battered boots beside his chair, his big feet clad only in the ludicrous, red and white striped socks Pepper had knitted for him. “Something else concerns ye, laddie?”

“My Pepper,” he said, tongue thick. “She’s reported to be at the brownies’ house.”

Thekkin’s eyes narrowed. “Yer worried.”

Ríkin rubbed at his face. “Aye,” he admitted. _*One brownie lies mayhap dying from the attack.*_

His brothers frowned in unison, their stocky frames tensing. Thekkin stared at Ríkin hard before nodding shortly. “We’ll head there first.” He stomped his feet into his boots and stood. “We’ll have your lassie back at your side in two shakes, Brother.”

Ríkin’s shoulders settled at their proper height, tension draining from them. _She’ll be well._ ‘twas irrational, his fear of losing her again, but he could not rid himself of it as yet. Pepper had vanished upon him for over half a year with no word, and he wasn’t sure he’d be forgetting the sense of loss that had stalked him each day of their separation. Not anytime soon. 

With any luck, Thekkin and Eikin would collect Pepper and beat him back to the Hall of the Forefathers. ‘twas the truth, he was counting upon it.

OoOoOo

Thorin stood near the Yule tree dominating the room, hands clasped behind his back and gaze staring up at the tree. Despite Balin’s presence, he’d just been informed that the brownies’ eldest had worsened, slipping ever further from them by the hour. Fury filled him, for the brownies were under his protection. _Little good that it did them._ Afraid to make a mistake, he’d delayed acting and made one of his worst yet.

Clove had attempted to soften the blow, informing him the failing brownie herself was largely responsible for her demise, for she’d chosen a single dwarf for host-family. Such a limit had kept the brownie weaker than she ought to have been. That another brownie had done the same, selecting Bilbo, was a matter of deep concern. What would be Nutmeg’s fate when Bilbo returned to Bag End? 

Nutmeg, he determined, would need to choose at least one more host. Two would be preferable. And once this day was done and things set to rights, he’d be meeting with each of the lasses. Never again would one perish from lack of care. They had called him their king. It was high time he assumed that role in full.

Would this have occurred if he’d taken a deeper interest in their wellbeing? He rubbed at his jaw, wishing he knew the answer. _Valar keep you,_ he thought towards the ailing brownie. Balin had taken to holding the small female on his lap, rocking her as one would a child. Thorin could only pray Cicely would rally. 

As he waited for his people to congregate, he thought long on the matter, as well as his people, loyalty, and honor. 

What was taking Bofur so long? He’d expected the Company to be the first to answer his call, yet Bofur and Bifur were both noticeably absent. Bombur had excused himself a handful of minutes before to see what was delaying them. Thorin waited impatiently. He needed to speak with his friend before choosing how much he would reveal to his people. Much he had to say would directly impact the younger toymaker and his One. 

Dís nudged his side, and he realized his fists had clenched, his body assuming a warrior’s posture. _Mahal._ He relaxed, schooling his worries from his face. “Thank you.”

She exchanged a long, somber look with him as her hand rested upon his left arm. “Have you decided your course, dear Brother?”

An uproar interrupted them. Both pivoted towards the large entryway to find Gloin, Gimli and Bombur clustered around Bifur, the toymaker decidedly woozy upon his feet. The look in Gloin’s eye had Thorin standing up tall. 

“What?” Thorin demanded.

“See what’s delaying that healer, Gimli,” Gloin rumbled. The young warrior bobbed his head and darted out of the room. Then to Thorin, “We’ve been invaded, laddie.”

“Orcs,” Bifur said in Khuzdul, clearly in pain as he touched tentative fingers at his skull. 

Bombur slapped the hand away with a scowl. “Let the healer assess it.” 

Bifur managed a weak smile for his cousin. “They took Bofur.”

Thorin froze. By Durin. How had _orcs_ penetrated their defenses? One glance, and Dwalin rushed from the room in search of answers. Thorin wiped a hand down his face. This had to be the Nazgûl’s work. He should have let the brownies follow them. He should have _listened._ Secure in the mountain’s defenses, he had been complacent.

“It gets worse,” Bombur said.

Thorin’s hand halted upon his jaw. His eyes lifted in silent demand. 

“How?” Dís asked. 

Bombur included Thorin’s sister in his regard. “Bifur had a piece of yarn attached to his wrist along with Bofur’s hat when I found him.” Bifur lifted the red yarn in demonstration. “I think our Helpers saw what happened and are following them.”

The ground seemed to move under Thorin’s feet for one long second. Then he spat a virulent curse under his breath before whipping around in search of his heir. In the crush of dwarves filling the room, he failed to spot him.

“Fíli!” Thorin called. Movement. Fíli’s hand rose in the air. His heir’s chin jerked upwards in question. Thorin waved him over. Returning his attention to the Company, grateful to see the Ri brothers had joined them, Thorin squeezed Bifur’s arm. “My word. We _will_ get him back. Bifur, you see that healer. I want you cleared for travel. Gloin…” 

Fíli arrived, one hand dancing on the hilt of a sword and face tight with concern. “Uncle?”

“Bofur has been taken,” he informed him shortly. “Orcs.” Fíli’s eyes flared. Leaning closer to him, Thorin said, “I need you to round up our brownies. All of them. We must move fast.” Then softer, “At least one of them witnessed Bofur’s abduction and followed. I need to know who it was.” 

He wouldn’t forget anytime soon the lessons of this day. The brownies were stubborn and brave, but they were also infinitely more fragile due to their need for _place._ If one of their brownies had headed off into danger, Thorin wanted her host-family present during the search. 

_Just in case._ Valar let it be a needless precaution. He did not want to see another brownie Withdraw. Not on his watch.

Fíli sprinted off. Thorin next sought out the familiar dark head of his younger nephew. “Kíli!”

OoOoOo

Anger and helpless frustration surged through him at his uncle’s words. “Say that again,” Kíli said in a tense voice, rocking upon his heels. He’d feared Thorin’s actions would come back to harm them, but he’d not imagined anything of this magnitude. Orcs had bypassed their security, stealing away Bofur. How?

“You heard me,” Thorin said. 

Kíli paced a few steps away from his uncle, body vibrating with tension. _Mahal._ His mind raced. Frustration won, and he marched back, unstrung bow pointed at Thorin in accusation. “If you had but listened to me…” he growled. He bit off the rest of the thought and turned away once more, trying to leash his ire. 

Instead, he grew all the more furious. “By Durin, Uncle.” He stepped into Thorin’s space. “From here on out, the Helpers are under _my_ authority.”

OoOoOo

Disappointment. Mahal, but Thorin had hoped to never see that crushing look upon Kíli’s face again. Not directed his way.

At the same time, Thorin bristled at the blow to his pride. Did his nephew believe he failed to realize his errors? “Kíli, we have not the time—” Thorin said with a measure of heat.

“They trusted me, Uncle. From the first, I was the one who valued them. I paid attention.” _While you did not,_ his nephew left unsaid.

Thorin held his glare for a long minute, a matching anger flaring to life. It died under the weight of Kíli’s bright-eyed regard. Thorin reached out and cupped his nephew’s neck with one hand and drew him near so that he could bring their foreheads together. Truly, Kíli had grown up, and into such a dwarf as he felt such pride in. 

Uncertainty flashed across Kíli’s face as Thorin released the embrace. Thorin told him in a rough voice, “Again, you and your brother humble me.” Kíli’s lips parted, but Thorin pressed a hand to his shoulder, shaking him once. “I should have listened. You were right all along.” 

A pause while he considered Kíli’s words. Kíli was right. As much as it stuck in his craw to know it, Kíli had seen with clearer eyes from the first. “When this is over, you will be my advisor on their behalf, their voice when they cannot speak. I’ll not repeat this mistake again. You have my word.”

“Uncle…” 

Thorin’s lips twitched. It seemed he’d finally found the way to rob Kíli of words. “Your mother often tells me I try to bear the weight of the mountain on my own shoulders, not trusting in my family or my advisors.” Then the full of it, “Pride. Ever, it seems, has it been my downfall.” He touched Kíli’s cheek. “This I swear to you, Sister-son. I will work on this flaw. Beginning now.”

He dropped his hand and pivoted upon a heel. Thorin strode to the musicians’ dais to one side of the room. A single leap carried him onto the platform where he turned to face his people. In a loud voice, he called, “Hear me.”

Conversation ceased. All eyes turned his way. Thorin glanced at the candle near the entryway across the long length of the hall and found it unlit. 

“They are not here,” a female voice told him softly. 

Thorin’s head tilted an inch in her direction. “It is safe?”

“As safe as we can be. Nutmeg guards the hallway outside. If she sees one approach, you’ll be informed.”

_Good._ For it was time to address his people plainly. “Clove?” he ventured to guess.

“Comfrey, Thorin,” she said with rich humor. 

_Comfrey._ If he remembered aright, she belonged to the barracks warriors, particularly Grómi. “Thank you, Comfrey.”

Thorin scanned the room, eyes alighting upon faces from which he drew strength. Kíli. Fíli. Gloin and his beloved wife. Nori. Dori. Then with the feeling of stepping off a cliff, Thorin spoke. “My people. I am once more reminded of your strength and resilience. Today, we were attacked in a manner few in Arda have ever faced. Yet here you stand, unafraid. Long have I believed our people the bravest of all Eru’s children, adopted or not.” A brief smile as his gaze locked onto one soul in the midst of hundreds. “Mayhap but for hobbits.” Bilbo’s uncertain smile flashed in return as many of the Company clapped the hobbit on the back. Thorin’s gaze left his friend. “Today, you have proved me right. You humble me with your courage.” 

Many a shoulder drew back as bearded chins lifted proudly at his words. By Durin, no king had ever had such a great people to lead. _Let me not fail them again._

Bracing himself, eyes finding his sister, Thorin continued. “There is much I have kept from you, my friends, in the hopes of ensuring your safety.” A wry twist of the lips. “A foolish venture, and one you might well harbor anger for. It is time I trust in those same traits that saw you through this day. Trust that you are both strong enough and brave enough to face the truth.”

And so he told them the tale. Not the full of it, for Daphne and Aleks’s story was not his to share. That belong only to the twins themselves and Bofur. But he told them of the Dark Lord’s rise in Mordor. That Sauron had already expressed his intent to see the line of Durin erased and Erebor the domain of orcs.

The mood swung from outrage to rumbling anger and on to curiosity as he next told them of the brownies. “They did not leave,” he admitted. “It was my doing to shield them from the Nazgûl. In doing so, I endangered them…and our kingdom. Comfrey?” In a lower voice, “Would you be willing to show yourself to our people?”

The brownie appeared beside him, fingers in her apron pockets and thick coat hanging open from her shoulders. She lifted one hand and waggled some fingers, blushing as the room erupted in loud cheers and wide grins. Then with a glance at Thorin, receiving his nod, she vanished once more. 

And last, Thorin informed his people that orcs had dared enter their kingdom and taken Bofur. Murmurs arose, a dull thunder filling the room. Thorin lifted a hand. “I need your help.”

Silence. Dwarves turned to look at each other, then almost as one, shouts filled the room. 

“I stand with my king!” 

“We have your back, laddie!” 

Fíli’s hand lifted to his shoulder as Thorin’s throat tightened from the show of unity. When had Fíli migrated to his side? 

Dwalin entered the room and hurried to him. “Nothing,” Dwalin said in a voice shaking with anger and frustration. “The gates are secure, Thorin. They did not enter that way. On my life, I’m sure of it.”

It was then that Thekkin, Eikin, and Ríkin sprinted into the room. Ríkin leaped up the few stairs onto the platform. “Thorin, two of our brownies are missing. Pepper and Hyssop.”

Clove appeared at Thorin’s left, leaning against Fíli. “They must be the ones who followed the orcs.”

_“Orcs?”_ Ríkin demanded. 

Thorin lifted a hand. To Ríkin and his brothers, “Orcs entered this kingdom. How, we know not. They took Bofur and left Bifur unconscious. At least one brownie was there.” His gaze cut to Dwalin. “The side entrance?”

“The guards there report no disturbances. Nothing passed through that door. I’m sure of it,” Dwalin told him.

Thorin’s frown deepened. If the orcs had not penetrated their defenses by either the main gates or the secret entrance, then that meant… Mahal. The orcs had found another way into his mountain.

“Uncle?” Fíli asked.

_Curse you, Sauron._ “We inspected the mountain when we reclaimed it. Once.” He let the word settle a moment. 

“You think they found something we missed?” Bombur asked, thick fingers clasped atop his beard.

“Or they created a back door of their own.” Thorin turned to Clove, then Ríkin. “You two mentioned a house the brownies have laid claim to.”

Both nodded. Ríkin’s voice shook with barely repressed fury as he told him, “Aye, ‘twas where my Pepper and Hyssop were to be this day.” 

Then that is where they must start. If the brownies had been at the house as well as Bofur’s, somewhere between they encountered the orcs. Raising his voice once more, he shouted, “Dwarves of Erebor.” 

Silence.

“Orcs may have created a new way into our Halls.” With low intensity, he told them, “I need every inch of our kingdom searched, from top to bottom. And my friends, we need to do this swiftly.”

OoOoOo

Kíli watched the Hall of the Forefathers erupt like a kicked beehive. Dwalin, Ríkin, Gloin, Fíli and Thorin issued orders to other senior officers who in turn organized Erebor’s residents into teams. Kíli’s fingers smoothed across his bow as worry grew in his mind. How many times had Bofur’s good cheer kept them all from despair during the quest to Erebor? Dozens? A hundred even?

And to know some of Kíli’s brownies were even now following the orcs… His lips flattened to a white slash. No longer would they live invisible among the dwarves. Kíli wouldn’t have it. Even if they must hide from the Nazgûl, the dwarves of Erebor would never be ignorant of their presence again.

Thorin pulled Kíli aside, disrupting half-formed plans Kíli harbored to assign himself to one of the search groups. Anything was better than standing here waiting. 

“Kíli, I have a task for you,” Thorin said.

Kíli straightened with relief. “Name it.” 

“It is possible Bofur has already been taken outside the mountain,” Thorin said, his gaze heavy.

Kíli held his uncle’s gaze for the second time that night, reading the request Thorin did not voice. “I’ll take our best hunters. If he’s out there, we’ll find him.”

“Do not engage if you find them,” Thorin warned.

_Who, me?_ Kíli quirked a grin. 

_“Kíli.”_

Dropping his smile, he said, “I won’t do anything foolish. You have my word.” Clapping Fíli on the back, Kíli jogged from the room. 

A tug on his arm halted him some distance from the hall. The brownie his brother had been so very solicitous about popped into view, her face earnest. “I’m going with you.”

Oh, no, she wasn’t. Fíli would skin him alive. “No, you aren’t.”

“I am.”

He eyed her simple apparel up and down before shaking his head more emphatically. “No, you really aren’t.”

A frustrated, feminine grumble drew a laugh from him, one she didn’t look particularly happy to hear. With a stamp of her foot, “Kíli—”

“No,” he said again, wondering if this was what Thorin had felt all those times he’d had to repeat himself to Kíli and his brother. “One, you are not dressed for it, and two, you will be needed here.”

She scurried after him as he resumed his quick progress to the barracks. “You have to.”

He snorted, offering her a grin. “You know, I’ve never been much swayed by that argument.”

Small hands bunched into fists at her sides. “Oh!” Then she hurried to regain his side. “Just because you--”

“Clove,” he said. Stopping, he turned to face her. “I won’t risk any of you. There are only seven of you--”

“Sixteen.”

“Seven calling Erebor home,” he clarified. Then more seriously, “We don’t want to lose any of you.”

She lifted one shoulder in a half shrug. “You need me with you.”

Kíli groaned, mentally acknowledging that in this, Thorin was right. Women were stubborn creatures. “No, I really--”

“You can’t see Hyssop or Pepper.”

He halted again. “What?”

Her smile was brittle. “Kíli, my gut says they are out there – my sister and Hyssop. They followed those orcs. Please. You can’t see them. If one of them…fell…” She cleared her throat. “There is no winter in Faerie.”

Faerie. A suspicion he’d harbored since Bilbo had mentioned that Muriste creature hardened into certainty, and a tremendous anger began to claim Kíli. Confirmation. Thorin and most of the Company had hied off to Faerie…and left Fíli to lie about where they’d gone. 

He forced his mind from that avenue and to the important bits. Two of his Helpers. Out in the snow. With no experience with such weather. _Mahal._ “Alright.”

“Alright?”

He pointed a finger at her nose. “You do as I say. You _do not_ leave my side without my knowledge and agreement.”

“Okay.”

Knowing he’d likely regret this, Kíli grabbed her wrist and hurried to the barracks. They’d need extra cloaks and blankets for the two missing brownies if Clove was correct.

OoOoOo

Thorin walked quickly down a dark passageway along the third tier of the mountain, a torch lifted high in one hand. Everyone searched, even the king. A flicker to his left told him Gloin remained near at hand as he inspected the outer wall the next road over.

“Nothing,” Thorin growled, opposite hand tight about Orcrist. Mahal. They’d been at this for hours already. The urgency of the situation pressed down upon him with growing intensity. How fared Bofur? What were the orcs doing to him even now? Had they begun to question him? 

Whirling, he abandoned this street and headed for the next one over.

OoOoOo

At first, Fíli attributed Clove’s absence to the flurry of activity needing attention. He was busy himself for hours after Thorin’s speech.

But then too much time passed, and her small hand never touched his. Worry goaded him into action. As per Thorin’s instructions, he lit a candle, set out a place with food, and seated himself opposite while coordinating the dwarves’ search efforts within the mountain. Dwarves streamed in and out of the Hall of the Forefathers, and at last, a brownie appeared. 

Timid, this one. Her face was very like his Clove’s, but fine scars crisscrossed her features. _Mahal._ He forced any anger on her behalf from his face, afraid she might misinterpret it for pity. “Lady,” he greeted with a dip of the head. Dwarves nearby reacted visibly with outrage at the pain they knew she must have suffered. 

“Nutmeg,” she said softly, fidgeting in her seat. 

“I won’t keep you long. Have you seen Clove?” 

Her brown eyes darted from his, and she picked up red yarn, unwinding a length between elbow and hand. “She left with Kíli,” she whispered. 

“She left with…?” Fíli clamped down on his anger. He’d kill him. It was as simple as that. Unless… “Was Kíli aware she was with him?”

A tiny smile appeared on Nutmeg’s lips, and impish humor lit her dark eyes as they returned to his. “I believe so, Fíli.” A hesitant hand reached across the table and settled on his clenched fist. “He gave her winter gear. Our Kíli won’t allow her to come to harm.”

“Your Kíli?” he asked. 

A bright smile. “He _is_ our favorite.” She disappeared with a wink, leaving him gaping at her seat. 

“Their favorite,” he said, head panning until he met his guard, Skúvar’s, eyes. The guard gave him a polite smile. 

Mahal. Their favorite? 

_Their favorite will have some explaining to do when I get a hold of him._ Teeth clenched, Fíli headed for the First Hall. When Kíli returned, he intended to be waiting for him.

OoOoOo

Nori bent and picked up the red object laying in the middle of the road. Whistling silently, he fingered it. What was this? It resembled a sock, but it was flat, the seam running right where the center of the foot would be. Not the most comfortable of designs, and the proportions were all wrong, too. A white cuff circled its mouth, and Ori’s name was embroidered there as clear as day.

Rubbing fingers against the soft weave with furrowed brow, he gave volume to his whistle, eyes searching the area. Was that another odd sock up ahead? 

Right. 

His unformed tune halted, and he issued a piercing whistle, drawing the attention of the dwarves nearest him. “Dori!”

“Aye?” His shorter brother hurried his way, white hair gleaming in the light of the torch he carried. 

“Send word to Dwalin." Dangling the sock in demonstration, he said, "I believe we’ve found something.”

OoOoOo

Kíli scowled at the sky. The accursed storm was making their efforts to find tracks impossible. With sunset long since passed, the temperature had dipped dangerously. It was uncomfortable enough for a dwarf, but for a brownie?

He pawed snow from his short beard. If this continued, he’d send Clove back indoors to his brother, willingly or not. He’d not risk her coming to harm. 

“Prince!”

Kíli turned at Yngva’s call, his steps crunching through thick snow to her position. The only female hunter they had, the dark-haired, green-eyed dwarrowdam lifted an object off the ground for his inspection.

Kíli grasped the long needle, muttering to himself as he recognized it for what it was.

“That’s Hyssop’s,” their invisible brownie said. A body leaned into his, shivering beneath her heavy jacket. Kíli frowned and pulled her close, tucking her between his chest and coat to share body warmth. 

“You’re certain?” Yngva asked, eyes sharp.

“Positive,” Clove responded.

Kíli panned around carefully, scanning the surroundings. With no tracks to follow, he had no way of knowing which direction the orcs had headed or even where their exit from inside the mountain might be found. 

Yngva’s green eyes met his, the same frustration mirrored in their depths. 

“We’ll find them,” Yngva’s husband, Gani, said. “Count on it.”

Kíli was. He’d match this group of hunters against any elf and expect them to win. _Although mayhap I’m a bit biased,_ he acknowledged with a snort. He rotated the knitting needle between two fingers. “We fan out. If the missing brownies have been dropping clues, we need to locate them.” 

Yngva brushed off her snow-encrusted cloves with a nod, rising to her feet. Kíli’s team spread out, kicking up snow with boots in search of further clues. 

Locating one dwarf in particular, Kíli shouted, “Hallur, report to my uncle. Tell him we’ve found evidence a brownie has passed this way.”

“Wait!” Clove tugged upon his coat. “They’ve been out here for a while already. They’ll need their host-families, Kíli.”

Hallur hesitated, craning about. The dwarf’s chin rose in a short bob, silently questioning. 

Kíli lifted a finger. To Clove, “Nyrar and Nyri for Hyssop, right?” 

“How did you know?” Clove asked, the back of her head brushing his chest.

He smirked down at the invisible brownie. “I pay attention.” Then to Hallur, “Ríkin and his brothers, too.”

Hallur nodded, his beard frozen stiff in the foul weather. 

“Summon them to me,” Kíli said. “And escort Clove to my brother.”

_“What?”_

Shaking her gently, he said, “You’ve already been out longer than is wise. Go back inside, warm up. Ask one of the others to join me.”

“Kíli,” she grumbled. 

He located her shoulder with his hands, then set his chin there, giving her woeful eyes. “You wouldn’t want my brother to hurt me, would you?” He batted his eyelashes. 

She snorted and pushed him. “Not fair.”

“Probably not,” he said with a grin. “But I’m right.” He pressed the brownie to Hallur. “By now, my brother is likely worried. Take her to him, if you please.”

“Kíli,” she tried again. “Really, I’m fine.”

“You’ll be more fine if you take a break and warm up,” he said. “I know you fear for Hyssop and Pepper, but you do us no good if you succumb to the cold yourself.” Then softer, “Clove, we are on the verge of losing one of your people. I’m not risking a second, and certainly not the lass my brother’s set his eye upon.” 

It occurred to him that perhaps that wasn’t the most discreet of statements – his brother had, after all, been most secretive about their relationship – but as many of the hunters reacted with amusement, he let it go. If Fíli was serious about the brownie, Kíli suspected his brother would need all the support he could get.

Hallur dipped his head, searched out and wrapped Clove’s arm around his, and headed back down the Lonely Mountain to Erebor’s gates.

OoOoOo

“Aye, ‘tis our brownies’ work, for sure, Thorin,” Ríkin said as he touched the red stocking. “These were for Yule. ‘Stockings’, the lassies called them. They were to be filled with small gifts and left for each dwarf. They’d not yet decided upon a date for distributing them or the opening of the gifts beneath the tree.”

Thorin said something in return, but all Ríkin could do was stare at the stocking. His lassie had spotted the orcs and followed. He could not but fear for her even as pride swelled within his chest. A bold and brave lassie, his Pepper. Truly, he’d not expected her to turn a blind eye and leave Bofur to his fate.

But why, _why,_ hadn’t one of the brownies run for aid? Why had they not come to him, or Thorin? Or even their “favorite dwarf”, the young Durin whelp? 

_I’m coming, my lassie. And ye’d best be hale when I find you._ He didn’t think he could bear to lose her a second time. Not with her bracelet upon his wrist and only one braid lacking in her hair. Not when he’d yet to clap eyes upon her.


	13. Hide the Treasure

### Chapter 13

Fíli was waiting for her when Clove and Hallur finally reached Erebor’s gates. Waiting with impatience, she surmised by the clenched jaw, narrowed eyes, and clipped tones he used addressing another dwarf. As Clove watched, shivering uncontrollably, the dwarf – Hlevari, she put name to him with difficulty – darted down a hallway towards the Third Hall. 

“Hallur,” Fíli greeted in a tight voice. “Any news?”

At Clove’s sudden sneeze, Fíli’s eyes flared. A second later, she was curled up in his arms as he strode towards the nearest set of stairs. 

“Hallur?” Fíli prodded with a bite to his voice.

“Found proof the brownies followed the orcs, aye we did, my prince, but ‘tis difficult to find any tracks.”

Fíli nodded shortly. In a low voice, he hissed, “What were you thinking, Clove? You are freezing. _Again.”_

She almost snarled back, but she clamped her lips tight on the words, recognizing the worry for what it was. “Pepper is my sister, Fíli,” she said at last, cuddling into him. 

He halted. Sighed. One hand rubbed across her back. Then with a suddenness that stunned her, his lips swooped down to claim hers in a rough, poignant, and scorching kiss. Then as Clove fingered her lips with wonder, he grunted, “Next time, warn me.”

“I thought you’d try to stop me,” she said. A slow grin spread across her lips. Fíli had kissed her! She wriggled her toes in delight and snuggled into his embrace. 

“Aye, I would,” he snapped. Pale eyes glared down at her. “I mean it, Clove. Tell me before you sneak off next time.”

But then it wouldn’t be sneaking off, would it? She swallowed a snicker. “Yes, Fíli,” she said.

He eyed her suspiciously. “That was too easy.”

“You kissed me,” she proclaimed with glee. 

His blond mustache twitched and his eyes heated. A second later, she was being kissed breathless.

OoOoOo

In the formless space of her mind, all Cicely knew was peace. Warmth. Drifting without thought, she detected strong arms and a deep voice singing softly to her as she was rocked.

 _Safety._ What was safety? It was outside her experience. Yearning for more of the sensation, she tried to swim nearer to the source, but found to do so threatened the lassitude surrounding her. An icy ache threatened to take hold, disturbing her peace. 

To draw nearer to that warm feeling, she’d have to risk the pain, something she wasn’t certain she wished to entertain. She’d had enough pain in her life, thank you very much. 

But the masculine voice stopped singing and began to hum. The lure drew her like the moth to the flame, one small step at a time.

OoOoOo

Pepper could not remember ever being so cold. Glancing at the sky through the white-laden branches of the silent forest they’d entered at sunrise, she hugged her arms to her chest, tucking hands into her armpits. The bright orb of a sun she’d enjoyed this past year suddenly felt more like Faerie’s dull ball of blue.

She couldn’t stop shivering, and worse, the cold was having another effect neither brownie had anticipated. Both had been forced to seek a bush to relieve her bladder more than once, exposing her nether region to the freezing temperatures and losing precious body heat in the process. Thirst was now a constant companion, a nagging need she didn’t know what to do about. They could scarcely go hunting for a river, and Pepper was leery about ingesting snow. Would that not cost them more precious warmth? 

The two brownies had burned through the remainder of their yarn the night before, creating mittens and scarves for their heads and ears. Pepper’s teeth chattered behind her red scarf as she returned to her immediate task. She fumbled to remove her mittens so that she could wrap stiff fingers about her scissors and snip a lock of her hair. She quickly tangled it upon the skeletal branches of a sapling. Brittle twigs snapped off as her uncoordinated hands refused to steady. “I r-really, really, really h-hate winter,” she whispered. 

Winter was evil. Why no one had seen it banished, she couldn’t fathom. They had wizards here – she’d heard Ríkin mutter about one on more than one occasion – so what were the wizards doing that they neglected so terrible a thing? 

_Salt,_ she decided with a spurt of vengeful indignation. If any wizard deigned to show up at _her_ table, he’d find his meal overflowing with salt. What Eikin had suffered would be nothing compared to what she’d dish up for the wizards. 

Once the lock of hair was in place, she shoved her hands back into the mittens, curled them before her lips and blew heat onto them. Then returning her hands to her armpits, she hurried to catch up with Hyssop. At least the wind had died. It was little comfort, but she’d take what she could get.

The orcs appeared bent upon putting distance between themselves and the mountain. They loped between the trees, keeping beneath the thickest boughs with no sign of flagging. It had been a chore not to fall too far behind them.

Had the dwarves discovered Bofur missing yet? Had Bifur survived? _Hurry up, Ríkin._ Fear tried to claim her, and Pepper found herself reverting to what she thought of as her Faerie-self. In Faerie, one did as she must, accepted the price to her soul and body, and did her best to find joy even in the midst of pain. Oh, but it was hard. A year of safety and warmth made danger feel all the more sharp. 

Hyssop fell. Before Pepper could wade through the snow to her side, the younger brownie regained her feet, her chin tilted in a stubborn angle. 

“They…have to stop…sometime,” Pepper said, hugging her coat to her while her teeth chattering beyond her control. 

“One would…think…they were…dwarves,” Hyssop panted as she sped up. 

Pepper tried to match Hyssop’s new pace, snickering weakly. “Though they’re…not… nearly…as nice to look upon.”

Hyssop huffed a laugh, a twinkle in her eyes. The sight relieved Pepper, for both of them were in a precarious position, and she knew it. 

A brownie could be away from all _place_ for a time, but not forever. Stressful situations only exacerbated things, shortening that window of leeway. Pepper could feel the sinuous fingers of temptation tantalizing the edges of her mind. 

For some, Withdrawing began with music, a beloved tune playing in the back of her mind. For others, voices long gone returned. For Pepper, it was scent: her mother’s floral hair rinse or the salty ocean aroma that seemed to linger around Tien no matter how long the selkie had been away from the sea. More than once, she found herself looking around for them, she smelled them so keenly, but then she’d remember they were worlds away. 

If Pepper was struggling, she knew her companion had to be, too. Even as a part of her ached with loss and anger at what this might cost, Pepper was grateful for Hyssop’s company. Rescuing Bofur with two of them would be difficult enough. She wasn’t sure it was possible at all with only one.

“Have you…told your Ríkin…about brownies?” Hyssop asked as she paused to cup hands around her mouth and blow warmth into them. 

Pepper swatted a loose hair from her face, brow pursed. “What do you mean?” she panted as she slipped on a slick of ice, arms flailing for balance. Oh, how she _hated_ this winter business.

“About your children,” Hyssop said as if she were a dunderhead. 

Pepper paused. Thought. Blinked. “No. I don’t believe we’ve had that discussion.”

Hyssop hooted. 

“We haven’t had the freedom to talk,” Pepper said defensively. “Besides, why would he mind? His sons will be dwarves.”

“But his daughters will be brownies,” Hyssop said, her voice turning bitter. “Weak.”

Weak. Was that what Hyssop thought? Hyssop’s voice said weak, but her tone said another word altogether: useless. _Cicely, you wretch. What has your tongue done to your daughter?_

Pursing her lips, Pepper forced her feet to keep tromping forward, the scent of the sea increasing in her nostrils. _All-Father strengthen us._ It was a warning sign. Pepper recognized that, but she gleaned comfort from it regardless. It was as if Tien or one of her brothers walked at her side. 

A thought struck her as she replayed Hyssop’s words. _Weak._ Hyssop, she thought, had been hanging around the wrong brownies back in Faerie. Pepper tried to nibble on her lower lip, wincing to find it chapped raw as she turned her back on the orcs and brought the Lonely Mountain into view. 

Who knew how far the dwarves were behind them? She craned her head to eye Hyssop, and a sly smile curved her lips. It was time Hyssop was taught how _weak_ a riled brownie could be. 

Perhaps, if Ríkin was lucky, there’d be something left of the orcs when he caught up. 

Almost giddy with mischief, she sang, “Hey, Hyssop? You ever play Hide the Treasure?”

OoOoOo

Ríkin jogged through the silent forest with forced stoicism, his hale eye never still. He’d not miss any of the signs his lassie left, for each was assurance of her continued survival. The orcs’ passage was written upon the churned-up snow, evident once the dwarves had located the spot where their retreat had reached the tree line. The precious red strands tangled in bushes and branches were no longer needed to guide their steps, but they served as confirmation that the brownies had weathered the frigid night.

Ríkin collected each strand, winding them between the fingers of his left hand as his right rotated his halberd in a never-ending spiral. His lassie was out here…somewhere…and like as not, she was not faring well. Fear colder than ice filled his belly, and ‘twas all he could do to stay with the group. From Clove, the dwarves had learned their brownies had no experience with winter or snow. 

_By Durin, lassie._ He was not sure if he’d wring her neck when he found her or manacle her wrist to his so that he could be sure she’d never do so foolish a thing again. 

She’d been out here all night. What if she fell? If snow covered her, he’d never know if he passed her by, never know what had happened to his lassie. 

_Mahal._ He gripped his halberd harder, chewing on the ragged ends of his mustache. A hand clapped his shoulder. Nyri, the glassblower. One of the other missing brownie’s host-family. 

The dwarf’s green eyes met Ríkin’s, and there he read the same fears hounding himself. Though not warriors by trade, both Nyri and his cousin, Nyrar, had fought to defend Erebor in the Battle of Five Armies. Both had left the mountain the instant Prince Kíli had called for them. There had been no hesitation. How the clockmaker and glassblower had determined their brownie to be a youngling was a thing the two dwarves could not pinpoint. Some instinct had told them such early after the brownies’ arrival, and both bristled defensively to know their youngling was in danger. 

“Thorin.” 

A dwarf to Ríkin’s left hefted an object out of the snow, drawing Ríkin’s attention, too. As Thorin made his way to the other dwarf’s side, Ríkin saw what the blond-haired warrior held aloft: a sword. Not just a sword, he realized, but an crude, orcish weapon. Thorin examined the blade before tossing it aside. ‘twas a strange find, but they needed no sword to tell them their quarry had headed this way. Ríkin dismissed the sword as Thorin seemed to be doing, prodding his legs back into their ground-eating lope. 

But then more weapons crossed their paths, many not even buried in the snow. ‘twas baffling at first, but as the numbers of dirks, swords, axes and spears cluttering the snow increased, a fierce rush of emotion surged through Ríkin. 

Their brownies were disarming the enemy. “By Durin, lassie,” he said in a soft voice, noting a heavy mace half-buried in the snow before him.

“Tell me,” Eikin said as they slowed to examine the thing. 

How had the brownies lifted the weapon? Despite the grim circumstances, Ríkin’s lips curled in a smirk. He’d not be forgetting this show of determination, never underestimate what his lassie might do if she set her mind to it. A wee suspicion occurred to him, one that loudly proclaimed he’d gotten off lightly those many months ago to receive only a face-full of flour. Aye, or the cake.

Feeling the weight of his sire’s, Nyri’s, and Nyrar’s heavy regard upon him, Ríkin pointed at the mace with his halberd and began moving forward once more. “Our brownies’ handiwork,” he said. “The lassies have been busy.”

Eikin’s lips curved upward. “Cake, swords, makes no difference. Thekkin would have loved to see this.”

_Aye._ As the foremost engineer in the mountain, though, Thekkin had been given the charge to seal up the orcs’ tunnel by the king – and to determine some way to ensure the orcs could not do so again. “My Pepper will have a tale to tell him.” And she would. ‘twas a growing certainty in his gut, displacing the fear. The spicy lassie he was growing to know all the better would not submit to mere snow. Nay, she’d be well.

And she’d be returning home with him.

OoOoOo

Thorin’s eyes slid to Nori’s after the sixth or seventh blade was discovered. By Durin, he was heartened by this development.

“A dwarf could grow fond of such lasses,” Nori murmured. 

Thorin snorted. Aye, the thief would be impressed by this display. “Do you suppose there will be anything left for us to do when we catch up?” At Nori’s lifted brow, he clarified in a dry tone, “I’m beginning to wonder if they’ve managed to steal Bofur away.”

Nori chuckled. “Now there’s a sight I’d pay good gold to see.” Then with a shake of the head and a wrinkling of the nose, “Still be a pack of orcs to see to.”

True enough. Though that, too, would be simpler thanks to the two brownies. _Bofur, what was it you said about keeping life interesting?_ Had Bofur any idea what was occurring around him?

OoOoOo

Dalrok gritted his teeth as he ran alongside his troops. _Troops. Bah! Worms._ “Stupid maggots,” he growled.

For over an hour, the orcish force had been plagued. First, the pathetic maggots had taken to stealing each other’s rations. Fights broke out over stale, moldy bread. Then, weapons disappeared from one orc’s sheath to appear in his neighbor’s belt. He’d lost five of the lousy worms in the ensuing scuffle. 

Now, they ran on in silence, every eye furtive and every hand tight about a weapon. Rocks had taken to appearing out of thin air, colliding with skulls, arms, and hands. Any weapon fumbled was lost, disappearing into thin air. 

_Wizard,_ he fumed, his teeth bared. He smelled a presence, but though he and his troops halted twice to beat down the brush all around them, they found no sign of the old man. The Nazgûl had said nothing about a wizard to contend with! 

Dalrok roared his displeasure as a rock hit him from behind. Whipping around, he threw a dagger in return. It plunked into a tree…and vanished before his eyes. 

He kicked the nearest of his orcs. _“Move, maggots!”_ He had to get his prize to the site designated by the Nazgûl before anything else went wrong.

OoOoOo

Hyssop waited only until the orcs had gained some distance before discarding the dagger in the middle of the road of packed snow. She puffed on her fingers, giggling weakly, but the breath from her lungs failed to bring much warmth into her frozen digits. Hands around elbows, arms to her belly, she hurried to catch up once more.

Even with the cold, these last few hours had been fun, and they’d taught her a great deal. If not for the lethargy tugging at her so, she’d wish to continue through the day. But lethargy _did_ tug at her – whether an affect of the cold or Withdrawing, she didn’t know. Hyssop was finding it increasingly difficult to work up the motivation to care. 

_Nyri, where are you?_ She felt like a lost little girl crying for her father, but fate had not provided such a father as she imagined Nyri would be. _He’d be my choice,_ she thought with a pang. Gruff like all dwarves, he yet had a capacity for gentleness unmatched by anyone she’d ever known. Certainly, her sire had never shown his offspring a fraction of the kindness Nyri bestowed upon strangers. 

Hyssop forced her fears from her, firming her shoulders. Though she was tired, so very tired, she refused to give in. 

Her mother was wrong. Brownies were not weak. With every minute, she proved it to herself.

OoOoOo

Pepper held her breath as Hyssop slowed at the rear of the orcs’ force. Flagging, Pepper thought. _I’m doing no better._ Still, she forced a cheerful grin to her chapped lips, winking when Hyssop’s eyes turned her way. Hyssop’s scarf moved, telling her the other brownie tried to smile back.

 _We’re running out of time._ The cold was sapping the little strength left them, and the danger of Withdrawing hounded their steps. Pepper not only smelled the salty-sea of her step father, she now heard the low rumble of Ríkin’s voice and felt the brush of his beard beneath her cheek. A wondrous sensation, but a deceitful one.

_It’s not real,_ she had to remind herself time and again, for her dwarf was nowhere in sight nor did her senses ping back with any node of _place._ She hugged herself tight, steeling herself to press onward. She’d never been so horribly cold, and if she had her druthers, she’d never leave the warmth of her home during the winter months again. 

Pepper forced her feet forward after the orcs. Bofur hung like a sack of potatoes over the shoulder of the biggest of the creatures, comatose to the best she could determine. 

Her lips pursed as her head canted to one side. There had to be a way to sneak him away.

OoOoOo

Bofur viewed the world through slit eyes as he dangled arse-upwards from the shoulder of an orc. A tilt of the head found dozens of the creatures jogging all around him.

 _Daphne is not going to be best pleased if you get yourself killed, Bofur my lad._ ‘twas a fact, and one that warmed him. Though she was likely hundreds of miles away, hidden with his uncle, Balfur, the knowledge that she’d be returning was always cause for a smile – a witless smile, Bifur often called it with a teasing glint in his eye, but Bofur was not going to quibble. 

Best he get himself free. He’d not risked the foul land of Faerie to rescue his lass only to die to an _orc._ An embarrassing end, to be sure, after all he’d faced. 

Bofur tilted his head a wee bit to the side, the white pom-poms on his Yule cap bouncing and bumping him in the side of the head in time with the orc’s rough gait. He had to school the reluctant humor from his own face at the absurdity of it. The situation was not good, and well did he know it, but he’d get through this. There was no other choice, not if he wished to hold his maple-smelling lass again. 

_Thorin will come._ Of that, he had no doubt. Stubborn, their Durins. And fierce in their loyalties.

Now, if he were a betting dwarf – and what dwarf wasn’t – he’d expect the orcs to halt and question him before long. The Dark Lord would stop at nothing to get his hands upon Bofur’s One, and that was a fact. Sauron knew full well his Daphne had knowledge of the future thanks to her books. Get Daphne, and he’d know where the One Ring might be found, as well as details about the war still many years ahead. 

_Best be preparing yourself, my lad._ They meant to get answers from him, and though he was determined to reveal nothing, he was none too certain what was in store for him. 

But then he noticed the agitated manner of his captors. The orcs raced on, but their attention seemed to be not behind them as he would have expected, but upon the forest itself. His brow creased. Movement drew his attention. The orc in front of him stumbled as if tripping upon an object, slipped and crashed down. If he’d not been looking, Bofur would have missed it. The sword the orc had been carrying was ripped from his grasp…and vanished. The orc’s fist pounded into the ice, leaving behind black blood, but then it lunched to the side, arms sweeping. It bellowed its fury until another orc yelled at it. Though it returned to its place in the line, the orc’s body trembled with rage.

_Helper._ He’d heard stories, and he knew his home had benefited from one of the Faerie denizens’ touch, but he’d never expected… Fuzzy, mitten-clad fingers brushed his wrist, there and then gone again. 

A slow smile spread across his lips. Mayhap all he really needed to do was sit back and enjoy the show.

OoOoOo

The sun reached its zenith. At last, the orcs halted as they sought what shade could be found. Pepper held Hyssop back as the orcs dumped Bofur on the ground. One shouted to the others, and many began to sit on snow-covered logs or rocks. What looked to be old, crusty bread appeared in hands and many began to eat. A break? It certainly seemed that way to Pepper. _Good._ Because the brownies needed one, too.

She tugged Hyssop back a ways before encouraging Hyssop to at the base of a tree whose roots bulged from the ground. She opened her coat – inhaling silently at the brutal cold that seared the skin – and wrapped it around them both. They huddled together, both radiating misery. 

“We have to get Bofur,” Hyssop whispered. 

Pepper nodded absently. But what good did it do to grab Bofur if there was no help nearby? She and Hyssop could hide him…for a short time. Truthfully, she wasn’t sure how much longer she could keep herself hidden, much less herself plus the added burden of an additional person. 

“My feet are numb.” 

Pepper met her eyes, then chafed the younger brownie’s arms. “They’ll come for us. You’ll see.”

“I’m tired, Pepper.” Bleak brown eyes peered up at her from a pale face. 

_I am, too,_ Pepper dared not say. Instead, she hugged Hyssop tight and let her eyes close. _Ríkin, I need you._

They sat there longer than Pepper dared to hope, the orcs arguing with each other until one stabbed another. The lot of them fell on the fallen comrade’s carcass like the most savage of scavengers. Pepper covered Hyssop’s eyes and turned away. If she’d had contents in her belly, she would have lost them. 

_Repulsive creatures._

It was then that she felt it. Pepper’s heart skipped a beat. _Place._ Two blessedly familiar nodes were closing in upon her location, and it was all Pepper could do not to burst into tears. Ríkin and Eikin. Warmth spread through her chest. They’d come for her. 

She was _so_ going to give Ríkin an earful about his tardiness. Pepper sniffled, already anticipating the heated exchange she was sure would come. She knew her Ríkin, and he was _not_ going to be happy with her for leaving the mountain like this. 

Not a split-second later, Hyssop gasped, her head whipping around to face Pepper. Her face lit with joy. “Nyri and Nyrar,” she whispered. Hyssop’s mittened hands grabbed hers with sudden strength. “They came!”

“Did you doubt?” Pepper asked as she painfully clambered to her feet, levering Hyssop up with her. 

“I thought they would. I mean, I was pretty sure… Wh-what are you doing?” Hyssop asked.

Pepper paused, one arm stretched across her torso – limbering up for what she knew had to happen. “We need to end this,” Pepper said. “I have one last game for our orcs.” She even managed a crooked smile, knowing Hyssop would detect it beneath her scarf. By the All-Father, she was exhausted, but she’d be dipped and dyed before she admitted how close she was to the end of her strength to Hyssop. 

The instant she was with her dwarf, she was going to steal his coat, wrap his arms around her, and snuggle in close. She bobbed her head once. _Aye,_ she thought, mimicking her dwarf’s drawl. 

The thought was heartening and she found herself sporting a genuine smile. 

It faded at Hyssop’s yearning expression. How tempted she was at that moment to send Hyssop to the dwarves, to just let her go. But as her attention returned to Bofur, Pepper knew she couldn’t take the chance with him. Her plan wouldn’t work without Hyssop’s help. 

If she did this right, Bofur and Hyssop would be safe. If. 

_Then I’d best be sure I rile the orcs but good,_ she thought, stretching her frozen limbs in preparation for the race before her. “Hyssop?” As the other brownie’s eyes left the forest behind them with reluctance, Pepper asked, “We’re almost done. I need you to do one last thing.”

Hyssop nodded shortly, eyes narrowing and chin lifting. “What do you need me to do?”

OoOoOo

Nyri exchanged yet another hard look with his cousin. Nyri had shed eight glass beads from his beard from his incessant fretting, that despite Nyrar slapping his hand away from his braids periodically.

Since setting eyes upon the brownie in the Hall of the Forefathers, his concern for the wee lass who’d adopted himself and his cousin had only increased. Such a small, frail people, these brownies. Generous, aye, but they were not dwarves. He fumed each time he thought upon the king’s decree. To hide the Helpers, aye, he could understand that. But to hide them from even their own host-families? The lasses _needed_ them, and by Durin, the king had known it.

And now the wee lass who’d taken such care of himself and his cousin was out here, hunting _orcs_ of all things. _She knows not her dam’s plight._ How would the poor mite take the news? A deep fear had claimed him, for what if ‘twas their lassie next to fade like the dam seemed bent upon doing?

“We’ll see her through this,” Nyrar said low in his throat, his lips pinched. “Don’t give up on her just yet, Cousin.”

_Aye._ Nyri had known almost from the start that their “Helper” was young. He and his cousin had worried something fierce when she’d vanished on them – when they’d _thought_ she’d vanished on them, Nyri thought with another touch of anger at their king. To hear she’d followed orcs to aid one of their people… Well, Nyri was proud of her, but genuinely beside himself. 

A child had no business chasing orcs.

He fiddled with one of the remaining glass beads in his beard. The cousins had discussed the matter between themselves during the long march. If their Helper lost her dam, they’d be stepping in to take care of her if she’d let them. Neither believed himself likely to marry, each content instead to devote time to his craft, but Nyri knew if given the opportunity to gain a daughter, he’d be taking it. 

_Nay, not **a** daughter. **This** daughter,_ he corrected, for the cousins had both developed a fondness for their invisible lass. They knew not the brownies’ ways. Mayhap the lass had a sire, though if he lived, he’d failed their lass and would receive a sound talking-to. Aye, Nyri growled to himself, he would. 

But first, they had to find the lass and bring her home safely.

OoOoOo

Pepper started by assaulting the orcs with rocks and sticks, weaving among them and making absolutely certain they were harassed into full fury. Then dropping her invisibility, praying she’d be able to reclaim it, she sneered at the lot of them, waggling mitten-clad hands before vanishing once more.

Oooh, were they mad now. Orcs roared and charged. Pepper fled, kicking up snow, her path looping as she dodged orc hands. _Hurry, hurry,_ she thought, eyes fixed upon Bofur. Not a heartbeat later, he vanished from plain sight. The orcs seemed not to notice, their attention decidedly elsewhere. _Good job, Hyssop._ The other brownie sat at Bofur’s side, her shield extended to hide him, too. 

_That was easy._ She squeaked as one orc got hold of her coat. _Spoke too soon._ Pepper wiggled free of the coat and ran for her life.

_I hope you’re ready for this, Ríkin._

OoOoOo

A fierce and dark joy claimed Dalrok as the short, bundled-up red-head vanished. He howled in victory. It had been no wizard hounding their steps. The female possessed the Master’s _Ring._ And the rewards awaiting the orc able to return that prize to the Dark Lord would be unparalleled.

“Capture the female!” he bellowed, abandoning any thought of the puny dwarf. The creature was unneeded now, for the most prized object of all was within reach. His reach. _“Capture the female!”_

OoOoOo

A low rumbling shook the ground, and Thorin’s free hand flew up, halting his dwarves. He cocked his head.

“Aye, something is coming,” Nori whispered at his side. 

Thorin nodded in agreement. With Orcrist, he pointed to the left then right. Ríkin led a third of the dwarves to the right while Kíli led another, matching division to Thorin’s left. All hunkered down in the snow, weapons poised and trembling with anticipation as they waited.

OoOoOo

Bofur stared after the departing orcs, wriggling in a hurry to the edge of a rock not far away. The strange distortion to his sight disappeared as he lost contact with the Helper who’d taken hold of his hand, but he paid it little attention. He had to get loose. That red-haired brownie was in no shape to be attempting to outrun orcs, not from the glimpse of her he’d had.

Another of the lasses popped into sight, her thin body clad in Bifur’s winter coat. Pale, she was, as she dropped to her knees with an orcish dagger in one hand. “H-h-hold s-still,” she said. 

Bofur gently took the dagger from her, reversing the blade and sawing through the ropes binding his wrists. Once freed, he set to work on his ankles. “Are ye well, lass?” he asked. The poor mite looked to be naught but a youngling. 

Frightened brown eyes met his. Bofur hurried, kicking rope fragments from his legs and gathering the Helper to him with one arm. _Och,_ but the lass was icy to the touch. A small nose pressed to his neck as she burrowed into his embrace, and he chafed her back as he gained his feet, picking her up with him. 

“Can you vanish for me, lass?” he asked as he headed out of the churned up snow into thicker woods. 

The youngling vanished. 

“Well now. ‘tis not often a dwarf has the pleasure of a nice stroll through the woods with a pretty lass such as yourself,” he commented, forcing a light tone. 

The youngling snickered weakly. Then, “N-n-nice stroll?”

“Weeell,” he said, drawing out the word. “I’ll grant it’s a bit nippy…”

“A bit?”

“…and the locals a mite unfriendly…”

Another, shaky laugh. 

“But I can’t complain about the company. It could be worse, lass.”

“Y-you are a n-n-nut, B-Bofur,” she said. Then clutching him, “I need Nyri.”

‘twas the voice of a youngling crying for the safety of her sire, he thought. Rubbing the lass’s back, he said, “Aye, lass. You hold on, and I’ll be finding him for you.”

OoOoOo

Thorin’s brows flew upwards to see the orcs pounding towards them, seemingly not aware of his dwarves’ presence. No, by the angle of their heads and scowls upon their faces, they were intent upon the ground.

“Daft, the lot of them,” Nori said with a low laugh of ridicule. 

Perhaps. Thorin scrutinized the scene, seeking out any sign of a trap. Kíli’s eyes met his, his nephew’s bow taut and arrow at the ready. Thorin lifted a hand. Wait. His gaze sharpened. Puffs of snow burst into the air on their own. _Footsteps,_ he realized. Mahal. The orcs had discovered the brownies. 

That was when a brownie with a messy, orange mop of hair burst into view, her path veering wildly to Thorin’s right. _Pepper,_ he realized. Ríkin’s immediate reaction confirmed it, for the junior captain charged towards her with a battle-cry, his warriors right behind him. 

Thorin lifted Orcrist and signaled the others. With Nori at one side and Bifur at the other, he raced towards the enemy.

OoOoOo

He knew her on sight. When his Pepper popped into view, orcs almost on top of her, Ríkin’s heart near failed. _Ye daft female._ Aghast, he charged without waiting the king’s command, his halberd lifted. Right for her he ran, determined to ensure her protection.

His lassie disappeared not a yard from him, and he froze. He could scarcely swing his halberd, for what if he harmed her? But then, icy arms wrapped around him from behind. Ríkin braced himself as the first orc’s weapon slammed into the unyielding length of his halberd’s shaft. Ríkin twisted it, thrusting the orc’s blade away, then a reverse slice drew the bladed edge across the orc’s neck. 

The fight intensified as Ríkin’s dwarves bore the brunt of the attack. _Looking for my lassie,_ he deduced, his anger climbing. By Mahal, they’d not touch her. He spied Dalkin out of the corner of his eye. “Get her to safety,” he growled, thrusting his lassie’s arm into his sire’s grasp. 

Dalkin nodded, and the pressure of Pepper’s arms around Ríkin vanished. 

With Eikin on one side and Nyrar on the other, he waded into the orcs’ midst. Ríkin’s rage was unleashed upon the ill-equipped creatures. He imagined as they were cut down that these orcs rued the day they’d tangled with _his_ lassie. _My spicy lassie._ By Durin, he adored his Pepper. 

The instant the last fell, Ríkin stomped to where his sire waited at the rear of the dwarves’ forces. His Pepper popped into view, and his anger climbed. Mittens and scarf were not enough to ward off such cold. He removed his heavy coat, and stalked to her, wrapping it around her with lips pressed tight to hold in the words demanding voice. What had she been thinking to endanger herself so? His temper rumbled with the force of a solid day of pent-up worry.

“You’re late,” she murmured as he swept her into his arms. 

“Late?” he echoed, his voice a growl. _“Late?”_ Mahal. She was too cold, and his worry escalated to note small ice crystals upon the exposed flesh of her nose and brow. 

“I forgive you,” she slurred, her scarf-covered face finding a place upon his shoulder. Then softer, “I knew you’d come.”

He closed his eyes and kissed the crown of her head. Then as the knowledge sank into his bones that she was safe at last, words burst from him. “What did ye think ye were doing? Do ye have any idea the worry ye caused? ‘tis full winter, my Pepper, and I’m telling you, ye have no business…”

OoOoOo

Pepper closed her eyes as her dwarf vented the full of his spleen, lips curled in a small smile.

_I love you, too, my grouchy dwarf._


	14. Happy Endings

### Chapter 14

_1 December TA 2942_

_“I’m ugly!”_

Ríkin’s brow shot upwards at his lassie’s wail. The wee female burst into tears and tried to fade from sight. That snapped him from disbelief. 

_Daft female._ “Yer not ugly,” he said, trying to collect her into his arms whilst he shot his dam a beseeching glance. Tova shook her head, one brow cocked. She’d tried to warn him, she had, but he’d not believed her. 

Allowing Pepper a mirror when her skin was yet recovering from frostbite had not been the brightest of ideas. But how was he to know she’d react as she had? ‘twas baffling. Her skin had been seared by the cold. Blisters had formed upon her cheeks, nose, and chin as well as hands and feet once she’d been warmed. ‘twas to be expected, or so a healer from Dale had professed when consulted by Prince Kíli. Their brownies had bodies much like the men in that regard. What a dwarf could endure, the more fragile men – or brownies – could not. 

‘twas a lesson every dwarf in Erebor had taken to heart. If his lassie thought herself smothered by his family’s care since she’d been allowed to return home from the infirmary, she had a thing coming when she was permitted out and about once more. Not a dwarf in Erebor wasn’t determined to make certain their brownies were better cared for from here on out. The brownies had earned themselves a mountain-full of overprotective dwarves, they had. 

“Yes, I am,” she sobbed, hands hiding her face. 

He tried another approach. “’tis not yer face that won me, my Pepper.” 

Based upon her gasp of indignation and his dam’s swift kick to his ankle, his words were not welcome. “I can’t believe you’d say that to me,” his once-reasonable red-head cried before blubbering against his dam’s bosom. 

Ríkin tugged upon one braid in his beard, at a complete loss as to how to comfort his beloved. 

Fingers moved. _*Ye lack the sense of a auroch during mating season,*_ his so-helpful dam signed. _*Fix this.*_

Fix it? How?

Tova’s blue eyes narrowed, and Ríkin felt his temper flare. Females. 

He gently reclaimed his lassie from his dam, carried her complaining all the while from the water closet, and retreated to his bedchamber, kicking the door shut behind him. Privacy was what was needed. Aye it was. Little did he need his dam’s assessing eye upon all that transpired betwixt himself and his lassie. 

Ríkin seated himself in the only chair in the room, reminded of the time not too distant when he’d destroyed the bed upon finding his brownie sleeping there. He held her close and set his chin upon the crown of her head, rubbing her back in circles. When her cries had dwindled to watery sniffles, he offered her a handkerchief, silently thanking his father for telling him the importance of such objects when Dalkin had learned his son had plaited the first two braids in Pepper’s hair. 

As his lassie dried her tears, he murmured, “I’m not a dwarf of fine words, my lassie.” Her wordless grunt told him, nay, he was most assuredly not, and his ground his teeth, determined not to lose his temper. His lassie might be recovering, but she was still exhausted, and that, he knew, was only fueling her tears. 

That must have been what loosened his tongue and prodded words he’d never thought to utter. “Yer beautiful to me,” he said, capturing her gaze when her head popped up. His hand stroked down the twin braids behind her right ear, the courtship and betrothal braids. “’tis not only yer face, though I did see ye before the blisters, my Pepper, and ye are so very bonny.” His finger traced down the smooth line of her small nose before tapping its end. “But there are many beautiful dwarrowmaids in this mountain.” Another tap on the nose. “There is only one Pepper. One with such a kind heart and sweet way about her.” A grin quirked his lips. “One who would dump honey upon my head or sneak a cake upon my pillow because she was jealous.”

Her chin wobbled as her beautiful brown eyes stared up at him with hope. 

“Yer so much more than beautiful, my lassie. Do ye not see? Yer my everything.”

The tears that followed as she threw her arms around his neck…they were a good sign, right? Pepper drew back before covering his face with soft kisses. _Aye,_ he decided. A good sign, indeed.

OoOoOo

Nyrar stood back and watched as his cousin carefully plaited the adoption braid in their wee Hyssop’s chestnut hair just behind her left ear. Their charge’s still body all but quivered with suppressed excitement with each loop, her eyes bright.

The lass’s dam yet lingered on, but the two dwarves had been told much about _place,_ their lass, and brownies in general. Their wee Helper had lived with them for nearly a year now, serving them silently. _‘twill be different now,_ Nyrar thought, warm contentment filling him, for from what the brownie, Angelica, had told them when they’d held vigil over Hyssop’s sickbed, their lass loved them dearly. 

‘twas undeserved to Nyrar’s mind, but he and his cousin had made a pact that day, they had, to make up for lost time. They’d decided to demonstrate in dwarf fashion that the lass had wormed her way into their hearts, too, and had determined to offer her an official place in their household whether her dam recovered or not. 

Nyrar fingered the bead they’d selected to adorn her braid, throat tight. ‘twas their dam’s, a gift from her sire, a smooth bead of opal etched with glyphs spelling out _Cherished._

Fitting, they’d both agreed. The bead was a reminder…and a promise.

OoOoOo

_31 December TA 2942_

Thorin walked into the Hall of the Forefathers with smirking nephews to either side of him. _Mahal._ Guilt. He blamed the guilt he’d felt for how things had unfolded for ever agreeing to this ludicrous idea. He wore the most outlandish of outfits, a suit in Durin blue trimmed with silver – he’d balked at the first offering of red with white. The hat, he’d outright refused, but based upon his sister-sons’ matching grins, it little mattered. Thorin looked ridiculous and knew it.

The King Under the Mountain adjusted his grip upon the heavy sack of toys Bofur and Bifur had presented to him on his way to the hall, and heat stole into his cheeks as he headed towards the Yule tree dominating the room. Dwarves filled the hall, roaring their approval as he claimed a seat upon the golden “throne” some unknown soul had deposited beside the tree the night before. 

Dís joined him, his beautiful sister dressed in matching colors, albeit her clothes were stylish and becoming. _As opposed to laughable._ As he set the sack down before him, bearded faces wreathed with big smiles stared back at him from every direction. Bofur, the silly red hat again atop his head. Bombur with his wife, Mib, snuggled up to his side. Despite himself, Thorin’s lips curled at the sight of such merriment. 

The brownies had been right. Kíli had been right. 

Mahal, had any king ever been so blessed? So honored? Dwarves looked to him, aye, but also a hobbit and seven valiant brownies. His gaze flicked towards the entryway and found the candle there unlit, a sign every dwarf in Erebor now knew for what it was. Thank the Valar, the Nine had made themselves scarce since the attack. Though none believed the enemy was done with them, Erebor had earned a respite.

Returning to the hundreds of dwarves clustered before him, he sought and found proof of the brownies’ presence. Ríkin stood with arms enfolded before him – his Pepper invisible but evident in his grasp. Fíli smiled down towards his shoulder, his nephew’s expression plain indication his Clove was there. 

That was a development Thorin had been slow to accept. It heralded trouble, despite the dwarves’ acceptance of their Helpers. What would the reception be of a half-dwarf heir? There was no budging Fíli, and Thorin little cared to try. During the talks he’d had with each brownie, he’d come to appreciate Clove’s sensible ways and kind heart. 

Seeking further, Thorin located the Ri brothers beside Bilbo. Was Nutmeg with her new, larger family? Shyness springing from her scars kept her hidden from most of his dwarves, but upon ordering her to choose more hosts, it had come to light how much she doted upon Dori. Nori was another matter, but with the thief’s half-jesting proclamation that he’d win a brownie for himself in mind, Thorin suspected the coming months would prove eventful in that household. 

His eyes next found Nyri and Nyrar. The way the cousins stood left no doubt in his mind that Hyssop stood between them. Beyond the trio, Dwalin stood, likely with Cicely by his side. 

That the brownie had emerged from her comatose state had relieved them all, but oddly enough, it had been Dwalin who had done the most to bring her back. That she’d not cared for Dwalin at all prior to her collapse – a fact Thorin had learned from Angelica and intended never to reveal – made her recovery all the more amazing. What had transpired between the two, Thorin didn’t know and determined to leave alone. Dwalin’s business, and so it would remain. 

“Ready, then?” Bofur asked as he came closer, a gamine grin upon his face. 

“You enjoy this too much, my friend,” Thorin murmured, eyes drifting to the veritable hill of presents he would be distributing to his people once the sack of toys was presented to their dwarflings.

A wicked thread of humor lit the toymaker’s eyes. “Your grandfather was known for his gold sickness,” Bofur said, drawing a quick frown from Thorin. Before Thorin could speak, Bofur winked, grin growing. “I’m thinking you will be known for your jolly ways and festivities.”

Kíli burst into raucous laughter while Thorin groaned aloud into one hand. _Mahal._ Bofur had the right of it. The other dwarf kingdoms would not discover their brownies. Not until the Dark Lord was vanquished. From outside the mountain, Thorin’s actions would appear more that a bit…peculiar. 

Leveling a look Kíli’s way did nothing to dim Kíli’s laughter. Nor did glaring at Bofur. Beyond his control, Thorin felt his lips curving. _Mahal._ The absurdity of it all grew and grew. A laugh burst from him. And another. In no time at all, he was leaning upon his garish throne, roaring with laughter.

OoOoOo

_Two and a half years later…_

Thorin leaned an elbow upon the arm of his chair, chin resting upon his hand as he watched Aleks – now calling himself Hereward of Rohan – reacquainting himself with the Company. A lad no more, their Aleks, for his shoulders had broadened, his face had become leaner, and his carriage was one of confidence. 

_Rohan was good for him._ Though short for one purporting to be of the race of men, Aleks’ guise would hold. Thorin was certain of it. 

The King Under the Mountain rejoiced as many worries were lifted from him this day. Aleks had word from Radagast the Brown that the Nazgûl had at last left Erebor, and the Company’s dearly missed naiad twins had returned to them safely. 

_Bofur must be overjoyed._ He smirked, easily envisioning the joyous reunion occurring elsewhere in the mountain between Bofur and Daphne. The two had waited a long time to be together.

As soon as word spread that the Nine had departed for good, there would be a rash of weddings. Ríkin and Pepper. Fíli and Clove. Bofur and Daphne. Each couple had waited with impatience for this moment. 

All of a sudden, conversation halted. Aleks developed the most peculiar expression on his face. Then leaning forward in his chair, his voice tentative, Aleks said, “Dude. When did you get brownies, Thorin?”

The Company exploded in laughter.


End file.
